V is for Vixen
by MirrorShard
Summary: "My life: a shitty crossover between Sherlock Holmes, Dracula and High School Musical 2."—In Caroline's place Veronica is born. Witty, smart and with a knack for solving mysteries, hobby detective Veronica Forbes is quickly drawn into the Mystic Falls drama when she investigates Vicky Donovan's disappearance. How would the plot change if the dizzy blonde wasn't so dizzy after all?
1. V is for Vocation

**Note:** _Another huge project I've been wanting to write forever. I'm really excited to be finally posting the first part! This is a rewrite of the first season (and, because of my undying love for the Originals, probably later seasons as well) with a slightly different Caroline at work. Sort of unacknowledged Veronica Mars fusio_ n. _Anything the character Caroline Forbes influenced might not have happened or happened very differently. Don't take anything for granted._

 _Btw just to be clear: I love Caroline. I adore her. She's a great character with great development and I don't think she was ever "just the dizzy blonde" at all. I replace her with Veronica not because I don't like her but because Caroline is the sherif's daughter- it's the position that fits the best. Just so we're clear on that._

 **Warning:** [canon-typical] blood, violence and character death, cursing, frequent law-breaking, ambiguous morals, drugs, alcohol, tbc.

 **Pairings:** undecided, suggestions welcome (though most of the canon pairings from S1 will make an appearance as long as they don't involve Caroline)

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 **| Chapter I: V is for Vocation |**

* * *

" _Some of us aren't meant to belong. Some of us have to turn the world upside down and and shake the hell out of it until we make our own place in it_."

—Elizabeth Lowell

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 **[** Mystic Falls | November 2nd, 2009 | Monday | Morning **]**

* * *

The problem with living in a small, backwards, sad excuse of a town is that you know everyone and their grandfather. Or perhaps the actual problem is that everyone and their grandfather knows _you_.

You went on a date with that cute guy from second period chemistry? Your tatter-tale neighbour's sister probably served you the coffee. You tried your hand at a little harmless underage drinking? Your mother's best friend probably stumbled upon you when she cleared out the house.

You ask around about what happened to you last Saturday night? You're known as the town's slut before the sun goes down.

And when your name is Veronica Forbes and you're not only a part of the _oh so_ admirable Founding Families— a title that totally deserves the capital letters, just ask Mrs. Lockwood—but also happen to be the local sherif's daughter, well. Your mere _existence_ is just asking for trouble. If you have the audacity to actually have a life, may god have mercy on your soul, because this town's inhabitants definitely won't.

Trust me. I know.

I _am_ Veronica Forbes after all.

I'm the kid with the gay father who had a scandalous affair with another man and left my mom and me when I was fifteen, destroying not only my mother and our family, but also the christmas holidays in the process. Anybody wondering who won the Parent of the Year award in '07?

Of course, with my mom being _Sherif Elizabeth Forbes_ , the news of the divorce were all over the town before I had gotten off the phone with my best friends. That's just Mystic Falls for you. Nobody has the faintest clue what's going on, but _everyone_ has an opinion about it. And once they've judged you, you'll never get rid of that stamp on your head. It doesn't matter how often you shower, there are some things water just can't wash off.

Don't get me wrong, the harsh crash and burn of my parents' marriage had it's good points too. For one thing, I learned the hard way that blood isn't always thicker than water. The people you love can disappoint you. They can leave you behind, and all you can do is get used to the empty spaces and move on with your life.

The other thing this whole affair has taught me is not to care what people think. It's kind of inevitable when your home town consists of nothing but gossiping hags. I learnt to deal with it. I always deal with it.

Turns out that lesson was a lot more valuable than I ever expected it to be. Because when my world fell apart when I was fifteen, I had no way of foreseeing that being the sad remains of a failed relationship would one day be one of the more flattering things I would be known for.

Life is funny that way. In a very bitter, dark chocolate kind of way.

But even without getting into the boring details, it's safe to say that mom and I have two of the more colourful reputations around here. Especially considering we are technically part of the high society—or as close as Mystic Falls gets to having a high society. That's the nice thing about being a part of the Founding Families. It's a hereditary privilege that can't be revoked.

I can't say the same about mom's job, but with her competence and her legacy backing her up, I seriously doubt they would have dared removing her from her post for a broken marriage. Then again, these people value their spotless image above all else. Quite possibly the only difference between Mystic Falls and Manhattan's Upper East Side is the current lack of Gossip Girls around here. And while that particular comparison might be an exaggeration, it isn't completely unreasonable.

The scandals that have haunted my family—though, not counting the first one, they've really centred a lot more around me than my mom, and when I say _a lot_ I mean _one hundred per cent_ —over the last two years have made me cautious. An uninformed outsider might go so far as to call me paranoid, but thanks to my mother's job I have absolutely no illusions about the other inhabitants of Mystic Falls. Trust me when I say that, if anything, I'm still not cautious _enough_.

Besides most of the changes I've made in my life aren't even that excessive. Yeah, I've forced mom to install a new security system—not that it took much to convince her to begin with—and set up some standard surveillance cameras, but nothing over the top. And so what if I'm careful to always lock the door behind me and keep my curtains shut at all times?

I of all people know how much you can learn through simple observation. Hell, most of the time _I'm_ the one spying through the windows. If anyone knows what they're talking about, it would be me! Although I prefer the term investigating. It sounds much more professional, and less like a creepy stalker, who can't get his kick from the vast supply of internet porn like every other perverted asshole.

Not that I care what other people think about me, of course.

As per usual, the kitchen is empty. Mom tends to leave before the sun rises—should you ever bother to look up the term 'married to their job', you'd find a picture of my mother right next to it—but there is a yellow sticker pinned onto the fruit bowl, wishing me a good day and reminding me—yet again—to be careful.

Right. Because there is nothing more dangerous in a teenager's life than High School. _Honestly_. Sure, for the average girl's self-esteem and sense of worth that assessment might be true, but I don't think that's what my mom has in mind. I _seriously_ doubt she's worried about my confidence of all things.

Still, the mere fact that the woman, who knows me better than anyone else, felt the need to write this note makes me narrow my eyes in suspicion. My mother has always been a better-safe-than-sorry kind of person—it comes with the job description—but the countless warnings this semester are getting _a little_ out of hand. I'm old enough to know better than to follow strangers to their white van because they promise me candy, thank you very much.

To be honest, these constant reminders have been toying the line between 'justified, paternal worry' and 'suspicious behaviour' for a while now. Pity I don't have the time to analyse my mother's motivations right now. For the moment the Enigma of Elizabeth Forbes will have to wait, I can't be late for trigonometry again or Miss Vance is really going to kill me—or worse, call my mom.

So I put the matter out of my mind, for the time being at least, and the sticker between the pages of my notebook. Never leave potential evidence behind, you never know when you might need it and all that.

 _And this, ladies and gentlemen, is what happens when you spend your formative years being raised by a sherif._

Maybe—if doubtfully—I'm reading too much into this, but I trust my instincts. And said instincts are currently screaming at me that there's something fishy going on.

(More accurately, they are screaming at me to get the hell out of this town, but that is what they've been telling me for two years now, and I'm not going anywhere. I'm not letting myself be driven out of home town, by anyone. That isn't who I am.)

Well, my gut feeling and the suspicious disappearances that have been increasing with an alarming rate of late. Usually those cases end with a very bloody, very dead body. And as much faith as I have in my mom's abilities—it's a lot, trust me—she doesn't seem all that in control of the situation so far.

If things continue to go this way, there'll be a couple of personal bodyguards in my very near future. Which would be unfortunate. The effort it takes to get rid of your watchers every time you want to do something interesting just isn't worth the protection they may or may not offer in an emergency. Not to mention that the other students hardly need any more ammunition against me.

Which reminds me—I'm late for school. Again.

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#

* * *

In many ways Mystic Falls is just like any other American high school. There are the expected and easily identified cliques that you would find in every TV show. The jocks and the cheerleaders are perhaps the most recognisable ones, and usually found near each other for whatever reason. Maybe because their clothes fit so nicely.

Then there are the stereotypical stoners who, like vampires, shy away from the daylight and, more often than not, sneak off to their secret hideout—the one everybody knows about. There is the popular crowd where you find the kids of the rich, the beautiful and the influential. As far away from them as physically possible you'll find the nerds. In short: the usual.

Then, there is, of course, me.

Slamming the car door shut with more force than necessary and earning a few nervous glances in the process I stalk towards the one building in Mystic Falls I hate even more than the Lockwood Mansion—not an easy feat to accomplish, I can assure you.

Welcome to Mystic Falls High School, where another year and a half of hell are waiting for me. Whoever had the brilliant idea to invent a twelve year school system better hope I'll never catch up to him.

"Hey, V!" The loud, obnoxious voice of Tyler Grande-Sized-Asshole Lockwood sounds from somewhere behind me, interrupting my internal scheming.

[TL: Father is the Mayor. Mother organises the social functions. Member of a Founding Family. Football player. On-again-off-again boyfriend of VD.]

"We missed you at the party last Saturday! Let's face it, it's not a real party until Veronica Forbes does a strip tease on the couch table!"

Cue the too-loud laughter from his pathetic band of followers.

Of all the fucked-up, psychotic bastards Mystic Falls has to offer, Tyler is probably the worst. Not in the least because his dad is the town's major and the teachers literally let him run wild. If anyone in this town could get away with murder, it would be Tyler Lockwood, and he knows it. He makes sure to flaunt it too. It made breaking his nose that one time all the more satisfying.

"Lockwood, Moronic Interchangeable Face One and Two." I send them a smile dripping with distaste. "Do tell me, how does it feel to have to rely on drunk girls to pathetically get off with because your latest ex realised she could do better, and get herself someone who can actually _perform_ to her satisfaction? A fifteen year old at that?"

I don't put much stock into rumours—with everything people say about me, that's kind of a given—but I'm certainly not above using them in my favour. Tyler's death glare—Snape's would have been more effective and I was immune to that dungeon bat's evil eye by the first half of the second movie—is worth it. No doubts about that.

Too bad one day not so many years ago someone taught the guy how to talk back. It would have spared me so much trouble if they hadn't.

"At least I have girlfriends! What about you, Forbes?" Lockwood spits my name out like a particularly vile insult. Too bad it's not poisonous. "Oh, I forgot." _Sure you did_. "Nobody wants you, right? Even your friends got fed up with your attitude!"

I can literally feel the fake sweetness drain from my smile as my eyes turn frosty. Moronic Interchangeable Face Two shifts nervously. Good. Means I'm doing something right.

"Careful, Lockwood," I warn him. It's the only chance he's going to get. Tasering his sorry ass might just get me expelled, but damn, it's a price I'm willing to pay. "You _really_ don't want to piss me off today."

"What, you're on your period or something?" Tyler mocks but he's backing off now, if slowly. For all his posturing, he's self-aware enough to know hitting a girl won't get him any points. Not even if that girl is me.

Sending the jackass a small wave and an accomplished smile that's going to bug him to no end, I turn my back on the tedious trio and walk towards my class room. There's one good thing about this unpleasant encounter: after the tiresome macho play, I'm almost looking forward to trig. Almost.

 _Congratulations, Tyler_ , I think as my smile turns vicious, _you're on the list_.

* * *

#

* * *

After trig I head to biology which—unsurprisingly—turns out to be a complete waste of time. I couldn't care less about the different components of human blood, thank you very much. Not to mention that the whole blood group testing is a little too Twilight-esque for my taste. Honestly, what does it matter if the blood is A positive or O negative? All I need to know is who it belonged too, who spilled it, how and why. That's the questions mom gets paid to answer.

The scientific details fall under the jurisdiction of the forensic team. Of course, a place the size of Mystic Falls doesn't have a real forensic team, mind you. It's a part of the whole size-matters-conspiracy they want to indoctrinate our minds with. I mean, it's not like two thirds of those recent murders might have been solved if there were people around, who can do more than search for fingerprints like an excitable eight year old with a Toys'r'us detective kit.

But that's just Mystic Falls for you. Common sense is a rare good, as far as the residents are concerned. So is self-preservation for that matter.

Still, the local police department isn't useless. Not with mom there to kick their asses into the exact shade of purple that compliments her skin tone. Which reminds me, it's high time for a little mother-daughter family discussion. If I'm lucky I might even get my hands on some of her files; if only for my own peace of mind.

Especially the one of my late—violently so—history teacher, Mister Tanner.

Now don't get me wrong, I hated that bastard more than I hate Tyler Lockwood, and I've spent my fair share of daydreams fantasising about his death, but he was still my teacher. More importantly he was killed _here_ , on the school grounds. Not somewhere out in the woods, like those hikers that disappeared a couple of weeks ago.

I didn't like Tanner, but I like a killer who ripped a man's throat out during a football game and _got away with it_ even less.

Not that things couldn't have been worse.

Tanner could have been killed during one of those social functions I am obligated to attend, where the first thing people would have done, was pointing their collective finger at me. I'm not even sure if I'm flattered that people assume I'm capable of murder or insulted that they think I would get _caught_. Yet no matter how many other students repeatedly threatened to suffocate Tanner in his sleep, the second he dropped dead my name would have been on the top of the list of potential suspects.

Scratch that. My name would have _been_ the list.

Thankfully his mysterious attack happened during a football game. Me being who I am, I wouldn't have been caught dead at any school-spiritly-event. Ever. I would have probably been taken into custody regardless if I didn't have an air-tight alibi: I was eating dinner with my mom.

So yeah, I wasn't there when they found Tanner's body, and until now I haven't seen any reason to involve myself in that mess, but maybe it's time to change that. Who's to say that the next person who disappears is another faceless stranger or unbearable asshole?

I, for one, don't plan to have my year book photo plastered across the local newspapers. I look terrible in that picture, and I'm still certain Ethan Milton 'forgetting' to airbrush my red eyes was not a coincidence. Nor where the fifty dollars Ryan from the football team handed him later that day. Suffice to say their names have earned a permanent placing on the list.

Actually, most of this town just so happens to be on the list. But hey, what's life without a challenge?

Anyway, I'm working on it.

Which in hindsight was probably a mistake. Because if I had been paying closer attention to my surroundings I could have avoided another awkward encounter. I guess some days life just isn't on your side though, because here I am, innocently walking towards the gym and planning the destruction of my fellow classmates self-esteem, when I stumble straight into another girl, almost sending her crashing to the floor.

And my PE teacher tells me I need to work on my strength.

"Oh, I'm sorry-"

"Sorry, I didn't-" Whatever meaningless apology was initially on the tip of my tongue dies a very abrupt death in the back of my throat, when the girl I've knocked down gets back onto her feet again, and I am faced with a way too familiar person.

 _Hello unwanted past, nice of you to catch up with me every once in a while_.

Because there, in the middle of the hallway are two of the closest things to Mean Girls Mystic Falls High has to offer. The girl I've run into is Bonnie Bennett.

[BB: Mother disappeared years ago. Father almost never around. Close relationship with her grandmother SB. Single.]

And standing right by her side, brown eyes wide open in shocked surprise is her best friend Elena Gilbert.

[EG: Parents died in a car accident this summer. One younger brother JG. Her legal guardian is her aunt JS. Member of a Founding Family. In a relationship with SS.]

Bonnie and Elena used to be my best friends. The key word, just in case you didn't catch it the first time, being _used_ _to_. I really can't stress that part often enough.

"-see you there," I lamely finish my sentence after a very long moment of awkward silence. It's still more than either of them manage though, so I'll count it as a win. Of course, the moment the thought runs through my mind, Elena just has to open her mouth.

 _Nope. Forget it. I'm not in the mood to deal with this shit_.

I don't give her the chance to say anything. There is nothing _Elena Gilbert_ could possibly say that I want to hear. Instead I turn on my heels and hurry into the opposite direction. That I won't make it to gym on time doesn't deter me in the slightest. Mom's just gonna have to deal with it.

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#

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 **[** Mystic Falls | November 2nd, 2009 | Monday | Midday **]**

* * *

As it turns out, gym is almost over by the time I get there, and the last minutes I'm present are spent apologising to the coach. Thankfully he is almost ridiculously uncomfortable with the topic of menstruation, and explaining I was suffering from terrible cramps ensures that he doesn't ask more questions than strictly necessary.

Besides my unplanned skipping got me out of the only class I share with Matt Donovan, another one of the very long list of former friends I'm not and probably never will be on speaking terms with again.

[MD: Father unknown. Mother careless and usually absent. One older sister VD. Busboy at the Grill. Football player. Ex-boyfriend of EG. Friend of TL.]

Not that I'm one to back down or run away—Mystic Fall would have only seen a cloud of dust from me otherwise—but sometimes avoidance is better than confrontation. Especially when you're already treading on thin ice with the principal, because you kneed a pretentious jackass into the groin.

(If nothing else the football team—Tyler Lockwood being a notable exception—leaves me alone now, so I'd call it a win.)

Of course there is nothing _confrontational_ about Matt. He is one of those rare, genuinely nice people, who always gets along with everyone. Everyone except me. I live to defy people's expectations. There are a lot of upsides that come with it.

For example, not having a social status to speak of means nobody expects me—or invites me for that matter, not that it would stop me if I wanted to attend—to turn up on every we-are-so-badass party with the exact same wasted kids. Yeah, _so_ not missing that. Not to forget the fun it was to run from the cops when they finally turned up. The sherif's daughter could hardly be caught drinking, could she?

Still, it's not like the life I had back then was all bad. I loved being popular, I loved the friends I had, and I would have died for Elena and Bonnie. And on some days, days like today, I almost regret throwing it all away.

Which is my excuse for why I'm spending my lunch break watching the table I used to sit at. It's funny—in a very bitter way—how little our old table has changed over the last year. Almost like they don't even notice the metaphorical empty spot among them, the seat to Elena's left that Dana's occupying now. The seat that used to be _mine_.

Elena and Bonnie have their heads bent closely together in a not at all subtle, let's-subtly-discuss-some-deadly-secret-without-anyone-noticing pose that makes me want to roll my eyes. So I do. Not like anybody's paying me any attention.

Honestly, even after all these months it baffles me how those two manage to get anything done without me. Every tense muscle is practically screaming 'trouble' at the rumour mill and Elena's unusually strong make-up isn't fooling anyone.

Next to the plotting duo sits Stefan Salvatore, the newest addition to Mystic Falls High. I don't known much about him—yet—except for a few obvious facts. But the silence surrounding him is suspicious in itself.

[SS: Member of a Founding Family. Good-looking. Football player. In a relationship with EG.]

This is Mystic Falls not New York City, and if there's a new resident, his stepfather's secret affair five years ago in Europe should have been common knowledge by the end of his first day. But I guess that's the nice thing about having a sherif as a mom. On a rainy Sunday afternoon, when all your friends ditch you because they've got something better to do, they sit you down and tell you how to go about examining a crime scene. _Absence of evidence_ , as mom likes to remind me every few cases, _isn't evidence of absence_.

I need to keep an eye on new guy. Nobody causes trouble in _my_ town without me knowing all about it.

Slowly, but not so slowly that it will raise suspicions, I lift my favourite camera and snap a quick picture of my ex-table. I don't have anything else going on at the moment, I might as well start my research today after school.

"Hey…Nika."

I jerk in surprise as a quiet voice says my name. Only to come face to face with the last—or, at least, very low on the list of possibilities—person I would have expected to stand behind my chair, uneasily swaying from one foot to the other.

Chancing one last glance at the people I gave up on a long time ago, I turn around fully and observe my unexpected company.

"Well, this certainly is a surprising turn of events," I note drily, taking great delight in the grimace that briefly crosses his features. I gesture at an empty seat on my table. "Sit down, will you? I'm don't bite. Much."

It's almost sad how easily people are intimidated by a petite, blonde, ex-cheerleader, but I'd be lying if I said they don't have a reason to be afraid. Leaning back in my cheap plastic seat, I watch with open amusement as he nervously squirms in his place.

"So, what can I do for you, Jeremy Gilbert?"

[JG: Parents died in a car accident this summer. Legal guardian is his aunt JS. One older sister EG. Fifteen.]

Jeremy Gilbert. Rumoured to be a junkie. Rumoured to deal drugs. Rumoured to have an affair with Vicky Donovan. Rumoured to be constantly drunk or high or both. Rumoured to fail most of his classes. Rumoured to have gotten into multiple fights with Tyler Lockwood. In short, Jeremy Gilbert is perhaps the only person at this school with a more colourful reputation than I have. And that's quite an achievement.

Our shared status as social outcasts could have brought us closer together, but, well. The truth is, the only thing that brought Gilbert and me together, _ever_ , was the one thing that completely tore us apart. The last time the two of us talked was almost a year ago, only days after my fall-out with Elena and Bonnie. It wasn't a fun conversation, and we've been on a stand-still ever since.

Which makes this little get-together even more interesting.

Gilbert hesitates, and I can read in his eyes that he's seriously considering jumping out of this chair and running back to whatever hole he crawled out of. I can see in the tense set of his jaw that he won't though. For all our distance, I can still read Gilbert like an open book.

But what interests me even more is his appearance. His clothes are wrinkled but clean. His eyes aren't suspiciously red, and he doesn't smell of weed or an insane amount of cologne designed to cover said smell. There are tiny crumbs of yellow paint under his fingernails, where black nail polish used to be. In fact, nothing in his appearance supports the stories I've heard about him since his parents' death a couple of months ago.

That's not to say he looks good because he doesn't. He's too pale, there are dark shadows under his eyes and he seems—jumpy. And I doubt it's because he's afraid I'll give him the same treatment I gave Nick Cooper from the football team. The kid has always been too confident for his own good.

"I need your help." Gilbert forces the words through his lips like they cause him physical pain—actually, they just might. I certainly hope they do.

"Really?" I drawl. "You want my help? What did you get yourself into, that you need the help of a _jealous tramp that needs to get over herself_ and _stop blaming others for her own mistakes_?"

Like I said. Our last conversation wasn't fun.

Gilbert lowers his eyes for a moment, though I can't quite tell if it's because he feels guilty for what he said back then or because what he did is going to complicate things for him now. Frankly, I'm not sure I want to know the answer.

"Look," he straightens his back then, clearly having come to the decision to get this over with. The kid has guts, I'll admit that. Unfortunately he doesn't have much else going for him. "It's about Vicky."

And, well. That confirms one of the rumours at least.

[VD: Father unknown. Mother careless and usually absent. On-again-off-again girlfriend of TL. Potential girlfriend of JG. Drug addict. Waitress at the Grill. Current status: missing]

"Listen Gilbert, I don't know if you heard but I'm not exactly the person to go to for relationship advice." I snort at the mere thought, an ugly sound that makes Gilbert wince. "As for the tramp part, I doubt _Vicky Donovan_ of all people needs my help in that department. You're on your own. Now if you excuse me, break is almost over, and while there are certain things worth getting a late pass for, _you_ definitely aren't one of them."

With that I push my chair back and stand, staring down my nose at Gilbert as I sling my bag around my shoulder. The words are harsh, but I don't regret throwing them at him. I'm not a forgiving person, haven't been, even _before_. It's just not in my nature. It helps that Jeremy Gilbert is about the last person I want to do a favour, and he most definitely knows that. The fact that he still asked makes walking away so much more satisfying.

"Nika, wait!"

Of course, like all Gilberts, Jeremy is a persistent little bugger. Not that his cry stops me. Not until the kid gets a hold of my arm at least. The second he touches me, I whirl around so fast he has no chance to react and I kick him in the shin—hard—and twist my wrist out of his grip in a move my dad thought me when I was nine.

"Don't ever call me that name again, Gilbert!" I hiss, thick trails of rage uncurling from where they have slumbered deep within me, in that dark, concealed place, where I lock all my emotions away until I'm ready to deal with them. But once awakened, it takes me forever to box them back into their tightly controlled prison, and I can feel them now, spreading, growing, raging. Pulsing with the need to _lash out_.

"I won't, I promise!" Gilbert holds his palms up defensively. "Just listen, please! I know you don't like me, okay? I know I have no right to ask for your help, I just—You're the only one I know who might be able to find her!"

I raise my eyebrows at the kid's unfairly impressive puppy eyes. They don't stop the desire to punch him, but they do remind me of how Gilbert used to look at me, back when he was just Elena's kid brother, always following us around like a puppy. And that memory is a lot harder to shake off than I'd like it to be. "I suppose it's true, flattery will get you everywhere," I mutter in annoyance, mostly at myself.

"Does that mean you'll do it?" Gilbert positively lights up at the prospect, meaning it's highly unlikely that this is a trick or a game. Then again, he might be a fantastic actor for all I know. I can't allow myself to underestimate him.

"It means I'll grant you an audience, where you'll be given the chance to convince me that _Vicki Donovan_ of all people is worth my time." I make sure to convey how likely that outcome actually is.

Gilbert tenses a little at my words, but he bites his tongue in an effort not to argue. So he has some brain cells left after all. Interesting. He nods, face drawn into a mask of determination, and I read the silent 'whatever it takes' in that gesture.

"Meet me at my car after school," I order—I'm hardly going to ask _Jeremy Gilbert_ anything—, "And don't make it obvious. I wouldn't want to cause a rift in the _golden family_ after all." I make no effort to keep the sarcastic drawl from my voice.

Gilbert grimaces, probably imagining Elena's reaction, should she see the two of us together, and I almost sympathise with him. Almost.

Instead I brush past him before he has the chance to ruin my day any more than he already has. I might even make it to English on time for once.

* * *

#

* * *

 **[** Mystic Falls2nd of November, 2009 | Monday | Afternoon **]**

* * *

"So, let me get this straight," I start the engine the second Gilbert slips into the passenger seat. "You want me to find Vicki Donovan."

He nods. I resist the urge to hit him.

"Care to elaborate?" I ask through gritted teeth.

"She told me she needed to leave, get away from everything. The drugs, the people, _me_." Gilbert laughs weakly, the sound not as bitter as I would have expected. "And I understand that, I just—"

Everyone who has ever set a foot into Mystic Falls understands that. It really sucks that Bitchy Donovan got out of this hellhole before I did. Not that I'm going to admit that.

"Because you love her and dream about some cheap Disney love reunion shit," I interrupt him instead.

"No." Gilbert blinks. I'm not sure who's more surprised by this confession, me or he himself. "I loved her but it's for the best. I'm happy for her, I'm ready to move on. I just want to know that she's fine, that she's happy, and not-"

"Whoring herself out on the streets for her next fix," I finish his sentence once it becomes obvious he won't say out loud what everyone else already thinks. This time he makes no move to correct me.

"So you just want to know where she is, not actually bring her back."

Which of course makes my job so much easier. Because how do you get a druggie back into the town she ran away from? Especially considering I'm not exactly well-muscled. When Gilbert nods affirmatively, I stop the car at the side of a random street and turn to face him fully. It's time to cut the chase and get down to business.

"Why me?" I shoot the question at him the way my mom usually speaks with suspects that are getting on her nerves. It's a very appropriate comparison. "Why ask me for help?"

It's a valid question. Even before the big fall-out Gilbert and I were never close. He was just my best friend's kid brother. Never more, never less. Besides I know for a fact that mom is already on the case. She ditched our Sunday family time to investigate dear Vicky's disappearance after all. And mom is good at her job. If there's a way for the police to find her, she will.

Gilbert bites his lip, hands restlessly drumming against his thigh. It's painfully obvious that he's uncomfortable, but I refuse to give him an easy out. For _Jeremy Gilbert_ to approach me, there has to be more to the story than a run-away crush, that much I know for sure.

"You're good at what you do," Gilbert reluctantly admits, dark eyes looking everywhere except me. "I know the police is on the look-out, but they're just that, the police. They have other things to do. They're bound by laws and everything."

 _And you never let that stop you_.

The last part is left unsaid, but we both know it's true. I've done my friends— _ex_ -friends—too many questionable favours over the years. Everyone and their mother knows I don't take the laws as serious as the daughter of a sherif probably ought to. Then again, nobody ever outright asks how I get the things done that I do, so it's not like there's any incriminating proof.

"That might be true but there are other private investigators to hire," I reply, entirely unconvinced by his reasoning. Sure, none of those investigators can be found in Mystic Falls but Vicky isn't exactly here either, is she? Besides this is _me_ and _Gilbert_ we're talking about.

"Perhaps, but they don't know this town, they don't know _Elena_ ," Jeremy snaps right back and, oh, _now_ we're getting somewhere. It's all in the way he stresses his sister's name, not quite in anger but rather frustration.

"Trouble in paradise?" I try and fail to keep the snarky comment at bay—alright, so I don't try very hard. Sue me.

Gilbert glowers at me, but that's an answer in itself. "She doesn't want me looking for Vicky, she just wants me to _let her go_ ," he mocks, doing a fairly good impression of Elena in one of her overprotective moods. "She doesn't get that I don't want Vicky _back_ , I just want her _safe_."

"So you've come to me because you think the chance of pulling one over Elena is enough for me to ignore my intense dislike for you." It's a statement, not a question, because we both know it's the truth.

"Isn't it?" Gilbert challenges me confidently.

I glare straight back at him.

There are few things that annoy Elena more than someone messing with her baby brother. And as much as I hate the younger Gilbert, I love the idea of annoying her even more. _Damn it_. _Damn Elena. And damn that smug little bastard that calls himself her brother straight to hell._

"You better start saving your pocket money, because I'm going to rip you off like you've _never_ been ripped off before," I hiss and continue before Jeremy's lips have the chance to form that satisfied smile I know all too well. "And you owe me. Three favours, you don't ask questions, you keep your mouth shut, you just do what I tell you and never mention it again to anyone. Are we clear?"

Gilbert hesitates for just a moment, proving once more that he's smarter than his grades make him out to be. He knows I'm going to use these favours and he knows he's not going to like them. Too bad, so sad. I'm not a good samaritan. I don't help others out of the goodness of my heart.

"Deal." He offers his hand and I only hesitate for a moment, mainly just to make him feel uncomfortable. It's not like I'm going to back out of this, not with such a tempting offer.

Besides Jeremy Gilbert or not, this is what I do. Finding missing persons, discovering the skeletons' in other people's closet, putting my nose where it doesn't belong. _This_ is what I'm good at.

"Deal." I shake his hand. "Now get the hell out of my car."

As I watch Jeremy scramble to comply, I can't suppress a small smirk from growing on my lips. Sometimes, and only sometimes, it's damn good to be Veronica Forbes.

 **End of Chapter I**

* * *

 _Author's note: So. I'm basically sitting at the edge of my seat here, hoping desperately someone made it to this point. If you'd consider leaving me a review with your thoughts I might cry. I don't want to beg for comments and I'll update regardless, but if you like this beginning, please let me know! Tell me what you think of Veronica, her interaction with people, what you think a wanna-be detective might notice while living in Mystic Falls, heck, just tell me about your day. Just knowing that someone is reading my ramblings is incredibly encouraging!_

 _Thank you for reading this and I wish you a wonderful weekend!_

 _Love, ReRe_


	2. V is for Vestige

**Note:** _Thanks to everyone who's followed, favourited and reviewed this story! You guys response was incredibly encouraging and I'm not too proud to admit that I've been bouncing on my seat like a sugar-high kid with a creepily wide grin re-reading the comments this past hour. I hope you'll enjoy this chapter and a closer look into V's head and some of her relationships. There may or may not be some Damon in this chapter as well because I'm weak like that._

 _Happy reading!_

* * *

 **Chapter II: V is for Vestige**

* * *

 _Lots of hurtful secrets are better off kept. The problem is that people find it so hard to keep them._

 _—Liane Moriarty_

* * *

 **[** Mystic Falls 2nd of November, 2009 Monday Evening **]**

I stare tiredly at my textbook, too exhausted to even glare. It's only seven thirty, but I've spend most of Sunday night watching Connor Brodley play Fifa because his paranoid girlfriend thought he was cheating on her. I doubt his PlayStation was what she had in mind, but the only thing I care about are the hundred bucks she payed me. Honestly, the people in this town have way too much money to spend on useless shit—and me.

The beeping sound of our alarm system finally breaks my waning concentration. But before I have time to reach for the gun mom keeps hidden in the kitchen drawer, the aggravating noise quietens.

"Mom?" I call out, although it's not really a question. My mother is the only one besides me who knows the code for the system. We haven't even told Dad. He doesn't live here anymore. He can ring the bell like everyone else.

I don't get an answer immediately, but after a few moments of silence I hear the familiar pattern of heavy footsteps, dragged down by the boots she likes to complain about. A moment later a tall, blonde woman enters the kitchen, still dressed in the sherif uniform, her phone pressed to her ear.

She sends me a small smile and mouthes what I assume is a soundless, "Sorry".

I can't help shaking my head at her. Elizabeth Forbes—Liz if you're a friend—is a great mother, don't get me wrong. I love her and I know she loves me just as much. But she loves her job too, and if there's one thing being a sherif's daughter has taught me, it's that criminals don't keep the usual Monday to Friday nine to five schedule. The bad doesn't sleep—and neither do the people hunting it down.

Still, I can't complain. Mom really tries. And besides I know how this business works all too well. I'm a part of it myself after all. That's probably what makes us so close, despite the late night calls and the countless rescheduling of planned family trips; we understand each other. We play the same game by the same set of rules.

"No, no, Jack, I've left the copies on your desk. Just make sure Nate has done everything by the book, let him figure out the rest on his own. I'll be back tomorrow, I just need a few hours of sleep. Now go kick his ass for me, and don't call unless the town's burning down around you."

I snap my book shut, it's not like I'll get anything done right now anyways. Instead I get two plates from the cupboard while Mom opens the refrigerator. I expertly dance around her to get the cutlery, then take the orange juice she hands me. This is our routine, comfortable and easy to fall back into.

I suppress a mocking grin when Mom rolls her eyes at something the officer on the phone tells her.

"No," she sends me an exasperated look over the shoulder, "That was a _joke_ , Jack. Yes. Okay. See you tomorrow."

"Idiots," she mutters the moment she ends the call—though there is no mistaking the fondness in her voice—and places the cold leftover pizza from yesterday on the table.

"What else is new?" I ask, and we both share a small laugh over my dig at the local police force. It's not really funny though.

This town probably wouldn't exist anymore if my mother wasn't there to do a decent job—and she can only do so much on her own. The police station used to be in a better position once, but over the last year or so things have slowly gone downhill. Three of the older, more experienced officers retired in short succession, two because of old age, one because of health issues. A promising deputy died in a car accident shortly after the elder Gilberts' funeral.

The open positions have been filled with younger people that aren't yet used to their new responsibilities, have trouble to ascertain their authority, and lack the experience and know-how their predecessors possessed. The recent increase of dead and disappearing people doesn't help matters.

"You look tired," I can't help but note.

I know the last few months have been stressful on mom, but right now she looks more than just exhausted. She looks dead on her feet. Dark circles under her eyes, wax-coloured skin, and the sad excuse of a smile she gives me ain't fooling nobody.

"Long day," is the noncommittally response, followed quickly by the usual, "How was school?"

I raise my eyebrows at the question. It must be worse than I thought. Mom doesn't usually use such lame attempts to divert my attention.

"I tripped three Football players, stole some freshman's lunch money, and had wild sex with the School's drug dealer in a broom closet. So just the usual." I shrug and take a bite of the pizza. It tastes as disgusting as cold pizza always does, but I can hardly complain. I know how to work the stove after all, I'm just too lazy for my own good.

"I see." Mom's lips twitch into a smile that looks a lot more energetic than her previous one. "Was it any good?"

I send her a mock-thoughtful look. "Doable. And I get a discount now, so I figure, it was worth it."

"That's my girl."

For a moment I consider asking her about her own day, but we both know I only do polite conversation when I want something, so I decide against it. Not like I don't already know the answer. It was stressful, thanks to everyone's incompetence, but no one has turned up dead so far, so it hasn't been a complete loss. The town would have already been abuzz with the news, had that been the case.

No, it's better to save us both some time and get straight down to business.

"Mom, can I take a look at Vicky Donovan's file?"

Alright, maybe I could have been a bit less direct, but I certainly didn't expect mom to choke on her juice in response. It's not even such an unusual question from me. Over the years I've probably spent more time buried in this town's criminal files than some of the deputies that are working the office. I like to think that it comes with the territory of being my mom's full-time daughter and part-time secretary, but honestly? I'm just too curious for my own good.

"I wasn't aware that you were close with her," Mom finally replies, after she has gotten her coughing under control—and doing an abysmal job of pretending that nothing just happened. Really, her reaction would have tipped off even Officer Jack Sterling that there's something wrong—well, most likely. Not sure what this guy's doing in the department in the first place, he takes 'oblivious' to a whole new level.

"I wasn't." No use in lying about it, I've never made a secret of my dislike for the girl. But Vicky left me alone, so I was more or less indifferent to her existence, and later her disappearance. And doesn't that just make me sound like a stone-cold bitch.

My mother's expectant stare makes it clear that she needs more than that. I can't say I blame her. "Jeremy Gilbert asked me to look into it," I add, like that explains everything. It doesn't.

"And you agreed out of the goodness of your heart." Mom makes no effort to conceal the doubt in her voice. Over the course of the last few months I've been _anything but_ indifferent to the Gilbert's existence, and not in a good way. Of course she knows that, she's my mom. And at the time I desperately needed someone to rant to.

"He pays me and it's gonna piss Elena off," I state bluntly. No use in hiding my main motivation. Mom might not be at her best right now, but she's still a cop. And my mom. She'll figure it out sooner rather than later.

My mom closes her eyes for a moment, a strange mixture of resignation and determination crossing her face. When her gaze meets mine a moment later—two pairs of eyes in the same shade of deep blue—her exhaustion is gone, suppressed, leaving nothing but the iron will I've always admired behind.

"I know you want to help, Veronica. And I'm proud of you, of the things you're doing. You'll make a fine detective one day. But this is not the case of a cheating boyfriend or disappearing earrings in the changing rooms. The Donovan file is classified to the public and that _includes_ you."

"But-"

"No buts, Veronica!" Mom interrupts me, her voice sharp. "Look, a young, attractive, drug-addicted girl disappears? I've had dozens of these cases on my desk over the years, and they rarely have a happy ending. You're only seventeen and cases like these almost _always_ end ugly. I don't want you involved in that. Call Jeremy and tell him we're doing what we can and that you're out."

I swallow. Mom almost never uses that I'm-an-adult-and-you're-not-so-you-listen-to-me-now tone with me, but when she does, she means business. She's serious about this, and she's not going to change her mind, that much is clear.

" _Veronica_." She's waiting for me to accept her words, her explanation. And it makes sense in a way, I get where she's coming from. The chances of Vicky being alright and fine and happy are—abysmal. She's my mother for god's sake, of course she wants to protect me from that.

"Alright. Fine. I'll call him tomorrow," I promise reluctantly.

Mom looks at me for a moment longer, as if trying to judge whether or not I'm lying to her. But I'm not, I'm really not, and finally she nods in satisfaction. And promptly yawns.

"You should go to bed, mom. You left Jack on his own at the station, you'll need all the energy you can get." I can't help but laugh at the mental image. I wouldn't trust Jack Sterling with a goldfish if I had one, never mind a police station.

Mom shakes her head in rueful agreement. "Yes, I suppose you're right. Don't stay up too long either, sweetheart. You have school tomorrow."

"Don't remind me," I grimace at the thought, and we exchange a small smile before Mom finally stands and makes to leave the kitchen. She pauses in the doorway though, and I know what she's going to say before she even has the chance to open her mouth.

"I love you, Veronica." Her eyes soften. "More than I love arresting murderers."

My smile widens at the familiar words. They might sound odd to other people, but to me they are a promise. One my mother hasn't broken once in the last seventeen years.

"Love you too, Mom. More than I loved breaking Ryan Johnson's testicles."

That at least earns me an amused chuckle. And I'm not going to lie, if I was Harry Potter, the memory of Johnson's face would be enough to create a Patronus.

* * *

#

* * *

 **[** Mystic Falls 3rd of November, 2009 Tuesday **]**

"Yes?" Gilbert answers his cell with about as much enthusiasm as one might exude when serving jury duty, and the thought of being an annoyance without even trying puts a smile on my face.

"It's me," I reply, the amusement in my voice audible even to my own ears. "Can you talk?"

The question makes me feel a bit like I'm seven again and pretending to be a spy. I forgot how much fun sneaking around like this is.

Gilbert draws in quick breath of surprise. "Yeah," he mutters over the voices in the background, "just a sec."

There's the whooshing sound of a door opening and closing—going by the ringing noise that accompanies the move and the fact that it's still early in the afternoon, he's probably at the Grill—and when Gilbert speaks again his voice is a great deal sharper, more aware. "Have you found her?"

"No." I roll my eyes at the guy's impatience. Really, if it was so easy to find Vicky, the police would've done it already. "But I need you to do me a favour."

I pull my key out of my jacket and unlock the door, absently deactivate the alarm. Mom isn't home yet, one look into the empty driveway has told me as much. Which is why this is the ideal time to do what I should have done weeks ago.

"Already?" Gilbert asks, incredulous and perhaps a little bit nervous.

I roll my eyes again. Doing it so often can't be healthy, but really, this guy doesn't give me much of a choice. "Not that kind of favour. This is a favour you're going to do yourself, because if you don't, my investigation will end very fast and very ugly."

Throwing the keys into the key bowl, I slip out of my sneakers and walk down the hallway, to the last door on the left. My mom's office.

"What do you mean by that?" Gilbert's demand pulls my attention back to the on-going conversation. Right.

"I need you to go down to the station and harass the first officer you find." God, let it be Sterling. Please, _please_ let it be Sterling. That would serve the incompetent idiot right, for making mom's job harder than it already is. "Demand more details, ask what they're doing about Vicky, pressure them, demand they call you if they find anything. Just, you know, make a stink. Draw attention." _Convince my mom that I've backed out of our agreement_.

"But- why?" he asks confused.

 _Because my mom doesn't want me anywhere near that case, not that I'm gonna tell you that. It'd be like handing a loaded gun to a very angry toddler, who holds a serious grudge against you_.

"Because," I drawl, infusing as much annoyance as possible into the word, "the more of a scene you make, the more the officers will feel pressured to be seen doing something productive. I know you hired me and not the cops, but it's not an either or case we're talking about here. Besides it never hurts to get more information, no matter where it comes from."

"Why don't you just ask your mother?" Gilbert questions, sounding much more suspicious than he has any right to be. Damn it. Why can't he just be the oblivious pothead the rumour mill insists he is?

"Believe it or not," I snap back, "but my mother isn't a huge fan of discussing details of serious cases with her underage daughter, especially not when it involves people I personally know. There's such a thing as a right for privacy too, even if the residents of this town don't believe in it."

There's a rustle of breath on the other line. Knowing Gilbert, probably an exasperated sigh. I refuse to sympathise, he knew exactly who he was getting involved with. And a sigh is good. It means he's resigned himself to the inevitable.

"Alright, fine, whatever," Gilbert growls and hangs up before I get the chance to say anything else. I'm almost impressed by the immaturity of that move. Not that I've had anything to add, I simply would've liked to hang up on Gilbert first. Oh well.

I've got better things to do than listen to him whine anyways. Like breaking into mom's office, for example. After all, I promised that I'd call Gilbert today, I never said anything about staying away from the Donovan case.

* * *

#

* * *

As the sherif of the town—no matter how small—mom keeps quite a few handy toys at home, in the locked drawers of her office. So handy, in fact, that I've made it my personal mission to get my hands on the keys of said drawers. Money does't grow on trees, and those are the kind of resources I can't in good conscience allow to waste away in some stuffy back room. Besides I'm sure mom would be happy to know how much attention I payed her lectures all those times she told me about the most common hiding places for keys and passwords.

But today that isn't the reason I'm here. Today I head straight for the second drawer from the top, the one I've never bothered to crack before. Why would I? Mom's work was never a mystery to me. She has always been more than willing to discuss her cases, her theories, her solutions. In a broad, no names or other identifying information way of course, but that wasn't what I was interested in back then anyways. And later I learned how to figure that part of the equation out on my own.

Just because I never cared though, doesn't mean I don't know where she keeps the files of the cases that bother her enough that she can't let them go, even when she's at home. And considering we're talking about the disappearance of a girl my age, a girl my mom has known since birth, I have absolutely no doubt that Vicky Donovan's file is a part of that stash.

Unlocking the drawer—really, sticking the key to the bottom of the stapler is such a clichéd move—does indeed reveal the expected file. In fact, it's right on the top of the pile. It's also about as thick as I expected. The elder Donovan hasn't been known for leading a law-abiding life.

Unfortunately, that means I don't have time to read the entire thing now, and I'm pretty damn sure my mom would notice if this file in particular suddenly went missing. So instead I take a picture of every page with my phone. That way I'll be able to examine the information later, in detail.

As soon as I'm finished, I put the file back into the exact same position I found it and start to close the drawer again, when something makes me pause. The drawer is full. As in filled to the brim with files. And whilst mom has a bad habit of bringing her work home, she doesn't store those files here any longer than necessary. Yet this drawer drowning in paperwork. It makes sense in a way, I suppose. There has been a lot going on recently. But still, this does seem a little excessive.

I might have let it go though, if not for the fact that I recognise the name of the second file all too well.

 _Tanner, William_.

Frowning I stare at the file. True, Tanner's killer hasn't been caught yet, but it's been weeks since he died. There have been no new leads or developments, so there's really no reason for mom to keep the file here. I pull out the next file. _Westron, Tara_. And the next. And the next.

 _Hart, Simon._ _Kerrington, Lukas_. _Fenton, Brooke. Malloy, Darren_.

All of them names I recognise. All of them have died within the last three months. But none of this makes sense. For one, what the hell are Westron's, Hart's and Kerrington's files doing here? I know those cases, they were as open and shut as they come. Three drug addicts, having a party out in the woods that got out of control. There was nothing suspicious about those deaths, so what are they doing here?

Without really thinking about it, I pull my phone out again and take another picture. And another. And another.

Something isn't right here. It's not like Mom to waste time on closed cases, and it's even more unlike her not to tell me if something bugged her about them. Hell, Vicky's disappearance is the first time _ever_ that she's forbidden me to investigate at all, and while I haven't thought much about it before, looking down at this odd collection of files, I find it hard to believe that this is a coincidence.

It seems that Gilbert's case is going to be much more trouble than I've anticipated. But then, I should have expected nothing less. It's the Gilbert's we're talking about after all.

* * *

#

* * *

Three hours. I've spent three hours combing through every last page of Vicky Donovan's file and I have exactly nothing to show for. It's not that there isn't any information. I'm actually pretty sure Mom put more details into this than is strictly necessary. But the basics are all the same. Last anyone appears to have seen Vicky Donovan was at the Halloween party, after which she seems to have disappeared into thin air.

It's odd, how there are literally no traces at all. If Gilbert's statement is to be believed, Vicky came to say goodbye to him, apparently planning to run away. But why would Gilbert be the one person she told of her plans? She hasn't called in at the Grill, hasn't even told her own brother. And while it certainly matches the irresponsible impression I have of her, it's still strange that she's just gone like that. As far as Matt and the responding officers could tell, there wasn't even anything missing in her room. No clothes, no toothbrush, no make-up. And perhaps the most telling part: no money.

What sort of runaway leaves two hundred dollars behind in their night table?

Truthfully, the more I read through the notes, the better I understand why Mom doesn't want me near this case. There's no proof, of course, only a certain suspicion, but this looks less like a runaway and more like a _complete_ disappearance. In fact, the only thing casting doubt on a much less happy alternative is Gilbert's word.

Of course, I'm not going to tell him any of this. Not yet at least. Not until I have something more concrete. My gaze unwillingly turns to the next page of my note book. A page that is completely empty, except for seven names.

The owners of all of whom are dead.

It could be a coincidence. The deaths. My mom's unusual behaviour. Vicky's disappearance. It's entirely possible that none of these events are connected, that I'm jumping to conclusions. See shadows where there are none. It's entirely possible.

It's also entirely possible that they are connected. And frankly, it's been a long time since I've last believed in coincidences.

* * *

#

* * *

 **[** Mystic Falls Wednesday4th of November, 2009 Mystic Grill **]**

When you want more information on a crime, there are two ways of going about it. One is getting your hands on the data the police has acquired. But that only makes you as informed as any officer working the case, and when they haven't cracked it yet and you are no Sherlock Holmes wunderkind, chances are you won't do it either. The second option is to get information straight from the source. In this case, get the kind of stories one might be hesitant to tell the police—or simply not consider relevant.

In other words, you go to Mystic High's uncrowned gossip queen.

It just so happens that, as a social outcast, my contacts within the popular crowd are limited. Gilbert is unlikely to be of much help in that regard, considering his mental breakdown after the loss of his parents, and I'd rather push a blunt piece of wood straight through my heart than ask my former friends for help. Luckily, being a hobby detective means I do have a pretty colourful bunch of people who owe me a favour—and even more who'd do anything to ensure I don't share what I know with the rest of the world.

Dana Grant happens to be both.

[DG: Parents divorced. No siblings. Ex-girlfriend of BF. Plays four instruments.]

"I had a feeling you'd be here," I comment absently as I slide into the empty booth across from her. Social butterflies aren't hard to find in this town, there's really only the Grill and whatever place a party is currently held at to spend your free time. Considering it's Wednesday right after school, the Grill seemed like the best guess.

Dana apparently doesn't agree, if her startled expression is anything to go by. That girl really needs to learn to pay more attention to her surroundings. Her obliviousness provides me with a chance to observer her for a moment. She's cut her hair recently, the unruly, black waves only just brush past her shoulders now. She's a little pale too, and the small furrow between her brows speaks of stress and aggravation. Interesting.

Unsurprisingly, as soon as she recognises me, her pretty face darkens. It's not a very encouraging reaction, but I suppose I can't blame her. People hardly ever appreciate the beauty of blackmail, once they find themselves at the receiving end of it.

"What do you want now?" she groans.

I steal her banana milkshake in response and take a sip.

"Hey!" Dana protests, but only reaches half-heartedly for her drink. Maybe she's getting used to my antics. Hm. That would be a pity.

"Tell me about Vicky Donovan," I demand and take another obnoxious slurp.

Dana glares, her brown eyes narrowing. "That's my shake!"

I raise my eyebrows at her. The glare deepens. Its effect is lessened somewhat by Dana crossing her arms in front of her chest defensively. The picture she presents oddly reminiscent of a pouting child.

"Fine!" she snaps after another moment of our silent glaring contest passes. It's a contest I win every time. "What do you wanna know?"

Shrugging loosely, I tilt my head to one side. "Anything. Everything. You know, the usual."

The nice thing about Dana is that she is one of the few more genuine girls at my school. It makes her more predictable—and less likely to be confrontational. Sweet smiles and caring nature aside, she's also a lot more attentive than most people give her credit for. Had things gone differently, I might have liked to be friends with her.

Well, that's not quite true. Because Dana— Dana used to be my friend. Back when 'friends' was still a term I used to describe the people in my life. It was only natural, really. The two of us had a lot in common back then. Both of us were on the school committee, both of us liked to organise the balls and carnivals and all that other useless bullshit. Sitting here with her in a booth at the Grill feels almost painfully familiar, and _yet_.

Things are also different now. The two of us are different. As much as I'd like to pretend otherwise, Dana hasn't been the girl that threw a soda in the face of a guy who laughed at me in a long time. Neither am I the girl that needs her to speak up for myself anymore.

"I dunno," Dana's voice thankfully interrupts my internal contemplations. "Everyone's saying that she slept with Jeremy for drugs, and there was this real ugly fight a couple weeks ago, when Tyler found out." She stares down at the table now, her brows furrowed in concentration. "Then, there's the rumour that the Major wasn't happy with his son's relationship. Some even say he forced her out of town, maybe even into a rehab centre or something."

"But you don't believe that." That much I can still tell from the unhappy curl of her lips.

Dana smiles wryly. "Major's never seemed like the type to care that much, as long as his son lives up to the legacy, you know?"

I take another sip from the drink to hide my grimace. Major Lockwood is a powerful man in this town, and nothing does he rule with a iron fist like his only heir's life. That doesn't excuse Tyler's grand A assholery though, not by a long shot.

"Anyways," Dana continues after a prolonged moment of awkward silence, "Seemed like she'd chosen Jeremy in the end. She even showed up with him in public at the party on Saturday. That was a shock, to say the least! I mean, sure, everyone knew there was something going on between those two, but I'd never thought Vicky would go public with a guy two years younger than her, you know?" Dana shakes her head a little in disbelief. "She looked better though, healthier. Makes me think she really did get clean this time."

"Hm." I hum non-committally. Vicky Donovan cleaning herself up? Not four days ago the mere thought would've sent me into hysterics. But maybe she really is trying to better her life. Maybe I'm not giving her enough credit.

"Not what you were looking for?" Dana guesses.

"I don't know." I push her milkshake back to her side of the table. "To be honest, I'm not sure what it is I'm looking for."

And with those words I rise, only to freeze half-way through, when a thought occurs to me. "You saw her?"

"What?"

"At the party," I specify. "Did you see Vicky at the party?"

"Obviously," Dana laughs a bit awkwardly. "Honestly? I'm pretty sure _everyone_ noticed her. Her costume was fantastic. That, and she came with _Jeremy_. I think we were all expecting a little more drama when Tyler noticed them, but they left so quickly, it never really got to that point."

I nod thoughtfully. Very interesting indeed. Maybe this meeting hasn't been a total waste of time after all.

"Hey, Veronica?" At the sound of my name I turn back towards Dana, who's looking at me with an unreadable expression. "Do you think we could maybe…hang out, sometime?" Then, even quieter, staring down at her hands instead of me, "I miss you."

She is fiddling nervously with the silver bracelet around her wrist. It's the bracelet I gave her to her fifteenth birthday.

 _"Forget it? How can I just forget it? I let this happen,_ we _let this happen! This is our fault! And you want to, what, let him get away with it?"_

I swallow and look away.

"Yeah, I'm-" I clear my throat. "I'm pretty busy at the moment, actually."

"Oh." Dana smiles, a sad, withering, little thing. "Of course. Another time then."

"Another time," I confirm with a sharp nod.

It's a lie, and we both know it.

* * *

#

* * *

Hiding in the toilet for twenty minutes until I'm sure Dana has left isn't a very mature thing to do, but right now I couldn't care less. Once I've confirmed that she's really gone, I walk straight towards the bar and order a shot of cinnamon tequila. It's a cliché and reckless on top of that, and I don't fucking care.

I tell the barkeeper as much when he eyes me doubtfully. It's fair, I guess. I'm demanding he hand out alcohol to a cop's underage daughter. Of course, I also found a way to prove he hadn't committed a hit and run a couple of months ago—and considering I had to visit four strip clubs to find the correct Amber who could ID him, he owes me more than just one shot, and he _knows_ it.

"What's a beautiful girl like you doing here, drinking on her own in the middle of the afternoon?" an unfamiliar voice to my left speaks up.

When I turn my head, I come face to face with a handsome stranger at least five years too old to be talking to me.

"That's a lame line if I've ever heard one," I comment drily as I take his appearance in. The man is not much taller than me, but there is something imposing about the way he holds himself. Like a lazy predator regarding a clumsy kitten. Coupled with the dark leather jacket, ink black hair and unusually bright, blue eyes, he's the posture boy for Disney's patented Bad Boy™ look. He looks also vaguely familiar, like someone I've shaken hands with at some point during a forgettable ball and never looked back to again.

"Feisty, I like it," the guy chuckles and holds out his hand. "I'm Damon."

Of course. The infamous Damon Salvatore, I've heard far too much of already, none of it good. I suppose the only true miracle is that I've managed to avoid running into him for so long.

[DS: Member of a Founding Family. One younger brother SS. Rumoured player. Added note: Arrogant asshole.]

I eye his outstretched hand for a moment, but make no move to reach for it. "I'm not impressed," I reply and knock back my shot instead. Then I turn on my heels and leave the Grill in quick, determined strides.

 **End of Chapter II**

* * *

 _Author's note: What do you think of Damon's and V's first interaction? And her relationship with her mom? Btw did anyone recognise Dana? Because she's not an OC... I hope you enjoyed this chapter and if you have the time, please share your thoughts and ideas in a comment! I still haven't planned out a lot of the plot and I'm open to suggestions._

 _Love and a wonderful weekend to you all, ReRe_


	3. V is for Venom

**Note:** _Once again thank you for all the follows, favourites and especially the comments! You're all amazing! This chapter is a little early because I won't have time to post it tomorrow or on Saturday. You're welcome :)_

 _And btw I love how enthusiastic you've reacted to Damon's introduction! Not to spoil anything, but I think you're gonna like this chapter... That said, fair warning: we're still in the early episodes of season 1. Damon is as obsessed with Katherine as always and V is nowhere near ready or willing to date him. I'm not discounting the possibility but if it'll happen, it'll take a while. But don't let my slow burn relationship development tendencies stop you from shipping ;)_

 _Happy reading!_

* * *

 **| Chapter III: V is for Venom |**

* * *

 _When your past calls, don't answer. It has nothing new to say._

 _—Unknown_

* * *

 **[** Mystic Falls Thursday 5th of November, 2009 The Gilbert's backyard **]**

"This is ridiculous," Gilbert mutters as he pulls a stray leaf out of his hair.

It's his fourth complaint in as many minutes. I don't even bother looking up from my notebook anymore. "You were the one who insisted we can't meet at your home," I remind him—also for the fourth time. It's not like I enjoy crawling around the bushes in the back of the Gilberts' garden any more than he does, thank you very much. Although I have to admit that there is a certain thrill to sneaking around, especially considering I know how much Elena will flip once she inevitably finds out what's going on.

That's the first rule of the detective business: There is no such thing as secrets. It's just a matter of finding the information one needs.

"We could've met at your home!" Gilbert continues to whine.

That comment, at last, earns him a blank stare. "You won't set a foot in my home ever again," I say after a moment with more vehemence than is perhaps necessary. "Over my dead body."

"Alright, alright, jeez," Gilbert backs off, apparently realising he has crossed a line. "But can we at least get done with this? I swear there's something crawling up my leg!"

"Whatever, princess." I slam the notebook shut. "Not like I wouldn't have been done with this half an hour ago if you hadn't been so busy throwing a tantrum."

"Does that mean you found Vicky?" Gilbert visibly perks up at the thought.

"No." Alright, maybe I take a little more relish in bursting his bubble than what would be considered professional. But that's nobody's business but my own. "I need to ask you some more questions about the day she disappeared."

"Why?" Gilbert asks, running a hand through his shaggy hair. He desperately needs a new hair cut.

"You desperately need a new hair cut."

He blinks. "What?"

"Never mind," I hastily move on, not sure why I've even made that comment. "The important thing is, Donovan's car was still at her home, but she had to get out of town somehow. Since you were apparently the last person to see her, I figured, maybe you saw her talking with someone before or after she broke up with you."

Gilbert frowns. "I can't think of anyone."

Well. It was worth a try.

"Where did she break up with you anyways? You two went to the Halloween party together, right?" That at least a few dozen people can confirm. Dana wasn't kidding when she said everyone had noticed the two of them.

"I think so?" Gilbert says, but it sounds more like a question than a statement.

"What do you mean, you think so?"

"We weren't planning to go together," Gilbert clarifies with a frown. "I hadn't seen Vicky in a couple of days, she was—off. And then she just showed up at the party out of nowhere, and well. You know the rest." He shrugs.

That certainly sounds a lot more like the Vicky Donovan I remember. "Where did she break up with you?" is my next question, because this is important. It'll be so much easier to re-trace her steps once I know where she went missing exactly.

The furrow between Gilbert's eyebrows deepens. "I- At my home- I guess?"

"She walked all the way back with you just to break it off?" I don't even try to keep the incredulity out of my voice.

"No." Gilbert shakes his head, "I don't think so. So I guess it was at the party after all." He doesn't sound sure though, not at all.

Gilbert's entire face darkens when I tell him as much. To his credit, he only hesitates for a second before he answers. "The memory's a little hazy," he admits. "I wasn't in such a good shape, at first. But it's for the best, I know that now. I want Vicky to be happy, and she couldn't be that here."

The words are filled with heart-felt conviction. "You really believe that," I can't help but state, not sure why the revelation surprises me as much as it does. Gilbert doesn't deny it.

"What were you anyways?" I pointedly try to disrupt the suddenly oh so heavy air surrounding us. But once again, all I get in response is a questioning look. "At the party," I add. "What costume did you wear?"

A shrug.

"Didn't you guys have a partner look or something?"

Gilbert shakes his head. "Like I said, it was pretty last minute. By the time Vicky decided to go, the party had already started, I just went there to meet her."

"Not that you looked out of place with your emo look." I snort, and just like that we are back to angry glares and aggressive huffs.

"Are we done here?" Gilbert doesn't even wait for an answer. Of course his exit would have looked a lot more dramatic if he didn't have to crawl on all fours between two thick bushes.

* * *

#

* * *

 **[** Mystic Falls Friday 6th of November, 2009 Mystic High Hallway **]**

"Hi Chris," I greet the spacey junior with unruly, red locks and an endless amount of freckles with a friendly smile. Chris is a nice guy. A little shy and more often hiding behind a camera, but sweet all the same. He's the kind of guy you can't help but adopt into your life once you've met him, like a stray puppy who's life you've saved once, and who'll now always welcome you back again.

In my case, I retrieved some less than innocent pictures that would have outed Chris and his long-term boyfriend Chad Brodley—and also ensured that the third party knew better than to open their far too big mouth. Which basically amounts to saving his life, as far as Chris is concerned.

Or at least I assume that's the reason his entire face lights up every time he sees me. It's actually a very disconcerting experience. People aren't usually happy when I'm around. People who aren't Chris, at least.

"Veronica!" His grin is so broad it looks almost painful. "How can I help you today?"

I can't help but chuckle at his enthusiasm. "Maybe I just wanted to catch up with an old friend."

"Please," Chris shakes his head in amusement and gently closes his locker. "You never just want to catch up with anyone, Veronica."

It's not an accusation, but I can feel my good mood dimming all the same. It's rare for me to regret the way I've scorned the other students—I've had my reasons after all—but despite everything, it's not easy to be cast away. Losing friendships hurts. You can't burn down a bridge without getting burnt.

"You know me too well," I reply light-heartedly, in spite of the dark turn my mind has taken. "I was actually wondering whether you were at the Halloween party last weekend."

"'Course I was!" Chris' answer isn't surprising in the slightest. For such a quiet boy, he's incredibly drawn to social outings of any kind. "You really missed out on that one, it was great! Marie, Zack and Dana really outdid themselves with the decoration!"

And just like that he's off, babbling about the different variations of fake blood, lighting and music choices. It's not fair to Chris in any way, but this is another reason why I keep my distance from him more often than not. He's just so—passionate. It's an admirable quality, and beautiful to watch, don't get me wrong, but it's also a constant reminder of the things my life lacks.

I don't have a passion like that. Even if I had one I wouldn't know because I can't shut my mind off. I can't stop logic and realism from dampening the joy I feel, no matter the reason. And seeing it in another person so freely isn't easy.

"Sounds amazing," I interrupt Chris' description of the Halloween-themed food. "Did you per chance take any pictures?"

He snorts, like he can't believe I even have to ask. "'Course I did!"

To be fair, anyone who knows Chris would consider this a silly question. The guy takes pictures of everything, always.

"I thought so. Could you do me a favour and send me some copies?"

"'Course." Chris shrugs. God, I always forget how good his eagerness to help feels. "Any particular reason?"

"It's for a case." I see no reason to lie. "You still got my email right? If you could just mail them to me, I'd really appreciate it. They could be a big help."

"Hey." Chris gently squeezes my arm. "You got it. Don't have to convince me, Veronica. Whatever you want. You know I'm always happy to help you out."

I pull out of his grip almost immediately, but the soft "Thanks," is as genuine as it gets these days. With how bright Chris smiles in response, I think he knows that too.

* * *

#

* * *

Unfortunately, my brief but fruitful encounter with Chris is the only bright spot on a rapidly darkening day. I'm not even sure why the sudden influx of bad luck catches me as off-guard as it does, "lucky" has never been an adjective I've associated with myself.

Maybe I just—thought the fact that Jeremy Gilbert had sought me out would mean something. Would change something. Maybe I just let myself be lured into a false sense of security. Or maybe the universe simply decided I was in need of another reminder of the unshakeable truth: Nothing has changed. The world isn't magically a better place than it was yesterday. And, perhaps more importantly, neither am I a better person.

It starts with a French test I completely forgot to prepare for. Which sucks, but is more or less just an annoyance. The trend continues at lunch, where my favourite hoodie loses a spectacular fight against a freshman's Capri-Sun. At least I don't end up as the laughing stock of the entire cafeteria, those days are well and truly over. Very few people dare to laugh at my misfortune in front of me anymore. And I'm even inclined to believe that the whole thing really was an accident—the girl almost _cried_ —but that doesn't make my hoodie any less sticky.

In other words, by the time sixth period rolls around, I'm already so far past done with this day, it's not even funny anymore. Which is of course when I run into The Guy I Love To Hate. Because apparently this is exactly the kind of cheap drama show my life has turned into.

"I hate my life," I announce calmly as I stare up into all too familiar, dark eyes that are always a little too wild for my comfort. Not that I'd admit as much, least of all to the most pretentious of all football players, Tyler Lockwood himself.

Some days the hallways of this high school simply aren't wide enough, and that's a fact.

"Are you stalking me or something, Forbes?" Lockwood sneers when our gazes lock. Truthfully he looks about as happy as I'm currently feeling—and like he's itching for a fight.

"We go to the same school, genius!" I, well-adjusted, emotionally balanced person that I am, snarl right back. "But sure, it's all about you, isn't it, Lockwood?"

Maybe we both have a bad day or maybe it's just that we've always understood each other a little too well, get a little too deep under the other's skin. But as I watch Lockwood's former smile twist into an ugly expression of pure disgust, I know this confrontation won't end well. For either of us.

" _You_ of all people think you get to give me shit about self-importance?" he spits, dark eyes incited with murderous rage. He's stepping closer, until his shoes almost touch my toes, a wall of hateful fury staring down at me. "Shut your hypocritical mouth before I do it for you, Forbes!" he hisses between clenched teeth.

I can feel my heart pounding painfully in my chest, but I refuse to show this despicable bastard something as empowering as fear. I push Lockwood instead, as hard as I'm able to—and isn't it frustrating that he barely stumbles back?

"Get out of my face!" I'm distinctly aware of the crowd forming around us, but most of my attention is fixated on Tyler Lockwood. The faint trembling of his body, the hard gaze locked onto me, the baring of teeth that could never count as a smile. "I don't know what your fucking problem is, but I'm not the punching bag you get to hit every time you're feeling down! Now leave me the fuck alone, Lockwood, because I'm tired of putting up with your shit!"

I try to walk away, like I should have done right from the start, instead of engaging Tyler and egging him on. But of course he always has to have the last word, and when he speaks again, his words freeze something deep inside me that I didn't even know could still be touched.

"Go on then, run away!" he yells. "That's all you ever do anyways, isn't it? You like to pretend you're so tough, but you aren't fooling anyone, _Nika_. You aren't some slighted heroine, you're no better than the rest of us! You're just a fucking coward! So run along, keep playing the hapless victim all you want! But stop blaming me for everything that's wrong in your life!"

The hallway, though filled with people, is dead silent. Or maybe it isn't. Maybe I just can't hear the laughter, the clapping, the tittering, over the rushing sound that fills my ears.

 _"C'mon, man. The party's downstairs."_

 _"What? You got somethin' to say?"_

 _"At least I didn't stay to watch!"_

"And yet," I whisper, once I remember how to make use of my vocal chords again, barely even recognising my own voice, "it's still all about you, _Ty-Ty_."

It's the first time I've said that name in months. I like to think it's because that boy died the day he told his friends I was nothing but a lying bitch, crying for attention. But the truth is, I'm not sure what happened to that boy, and I'm not even sure I care. I don't _want_ to care. Because I can barely live with the knowledge of what happened to the girl that used to jump on his back out of nowhere, giggling like a gleeful maniac.

I crack a smile then, one that is nothing more than a hollowed shell, at the memory, at the thought of everything that went wrong with us, at this entire situation. " _Isn't it?_ "

When I walk away from Tyler this time, it doesn't feel like an exit. It doesn't feel like a dismissal and it certainly doesn't feel like a victory. It feels like stumbling through a foggy world in a trance, body moving on it's own accord, mind empty and desolate. Like a tranquilliser is slowly spreading through my bloodstream, numbing whatever emotions I might have felt otherwise.

I barely register the crowd parting before me, barely even take in Dana's wide eyes when I meet her gaze over the heads of our pathetically eager audience for a second.

" _Say something_ ," I want to ask her, beg her. " _Please, for the love of all that is holy, say something._ " Right now I want to be that girl, the girl I used to be. The girl that relied too heavily on her friends. The girl that put too much trust into others watching her back for her. I hate that girl, despise her, and more than anything else I hate myself for yearning for her all the same.

Then Dana averts her eyes and the moment breaks, leaving nothing but cutting _What If_ 's and missed opportunities in its wake.

* * *

#

* * *

 **[** Mystic Falls 6th of November, 2009 Mystic Grill **]**

I gesture for the barkeeper to get me another drink.

"You sure?" he asks sceptically, but sets another glass filled with some ghastly pink liquid down in front of me all the same.

"Trust me, I've never been so sure of something in my life." I send him a humourless grin. Toby. His name's Toby. I should probably remember that.

Toby leans against the bar, a move that looks far too cool for a guy who's wearing too much eye-liner and a towel over his shoulder. He takes his sweet time looking me up and down, and though I do my best not to show it, his scrutiny makes me uncomfortable.

"Drinking isn't gonna fix anything, you know that, right?"

"I wasn't aware I'd asked for your opinion," I counter sharply. The judgement in his tone rubs me the wrong way. After today's disastrous turnout a wise-ass stranger criticising my life choices is the absolute last thing I need.

"Easy." The barkeeper lifts his hands placatingly, but it makes me feel less calm and more like I'm being patronised. And I'm so damn done with being patted on the head and told to go play with the other kids. "Just making an observation."

"Well, keep it to your-fucking-self!" I spit, fingers curling so tightly around the frail cocktail glass, I wonder how much pressure it would take for the stupid thing to break. It's unfair to take my bad mood out on this guy, I'm distinctly aware of that. Right now though I really couldn't care less.

"You heard the lady," another male cuts in before Toby gets another word in, effectively dismissing the guy.

I turn on my barstool to get a better view of my unexpected company and promptly overbalance. Luckily my unexpected—and unwanted—companion manages to steady me before I slip off the bar stool and crack my head open on the floor. A prospect that, though appealing in my current mindset, wouldn't improve my day in the long run.

"Don't touch me!" I mutter crossly, though I'm careful to place both hands on the bar in front of me to keep my balance before I shake his hold off. Once I'm sure I won't fall again, I tilt my head sideways and make a show of squinting at the guy, trying to place his face. "…Damon.," I add after an awkwardly long pause.

Salvatore smirks in response, though it doesn't seem to be a very happy expression. Of course with the kind of face he wears, he probably isn't used to people forgetting who he is. Not that I have, not really. It's a very pretty face after all.

"Don't worry." His smirk sharpens. "I only touch girls when they ask very nicely."

I'm not sure if I believe him or not, but frankly I don't care much either way. There's a reason I carry a taser with me wherever I go. So instead I chose the safer option and turn my attention back towards my neglected drink. It looks about as unnatural as a beverage is capable of, which is one of the reasons I like it so much.

"You're not much of a talker, are you?" Salvatore asks when it becomes clear I don't have any intention of keeping the conversation up and running.

"A real life Sherlock Holmes, aren't you?" I take a sip.

"Mouthy too."

I snort. "Trust me, Blue eyes, you've seen nothing yet."

"Oh?" Salvatore raises a single brow at me. Instead of picking up on the very obvious fuck-off vibes I'm giving off, he seems to be almost—entertained by my attitude. The bastard.

"Ask around." And yes, there is definitely some bitterness seeping into my words, no matter how much I'd like to pretend otherwise—because you never fully stop caring about what other people say behind your back—"This is as polite as I get."

I take another gulp of my drink, mostly just so I have something to do with my hands. The liquid tastes sweet, too sweet, really. Diluted. I set the glass down again very slowly. That bastard's given me a _virgin_ drink. And made me pay the full price.

 _Congrats, Toby_. _You've picked the worst possible day to mess with me. You are officially on the list._

"Now, not to be a complete bitch but kindly fuck off, if you please." I glare at the barkeeper's back. "I'm planning a very bloody, violent murder, and I don't need any more witnesses than necessary."

That actually earns me a low laugh from Salvatore, who's nursing his own drink and looking like he has no intention of going anywhere any time soon. Which isn't the reaction I was looking for and he damn well knows it.

"See, I simply can't do that," he explains in a mock-serious tone. "Not when you're clearly the most interesting person in this room."

"Oh? And why is that?" I ask with exaggeratedly faked fascination, even though the moment the words leave my lips, I already regret them. Engaging Salvatore like this is only going to encourage him. I really should know better. Damn it, I _do_ know better.

"Nah," Salvatore clicks his tongue. "Don't come fishing for compliments now, Blondie. You're ruining it."

"I'm sorry to disappoint, but I don't live to amuse you." I slip from my chair, slowly and controlled this time. "I didn't ask you to join me and frankly, I'm not in the mood. Whatever it is you want, you'll have to creep on some other poor girl. I've got better things to do."

Like wallowing in self-pity for example. But of course even that I can't be allowed to do so in peace. God forbid Veronica Forbes would get a moment to herself. Just one moment that's free of the constant judgement every single person in this town bestows on me. What sort of insane world would that be? Heck, it might even help me become a more level-headed, balanced human being, but no. Since when has anyone in my life ever cared about my well-being?

 _Go on then, run away!_ Tyler's cold words echo in my head. _That's all you ever do anyways!_

They burn, uncomfortable but not unbearable. It hurts because these words touch the mess of unresolved hatred, shame and guilt I keep locked away. Carefully collected and sorted, like a storage for dire times. It hurts because, as much as I would like to deny it, Tyler is right. I am a coward. I am the worst kind of coward.

But he is also wrong.

That's the one thing, the only redeeming action in that dark period of my life, that I still hold on to. Because I didn't run away. I didn't hide the truth. I didn't put a fake smile on and kept up the pretence. Unlike a certain someone, I refused to play along with their perfect, little world, where bad stuff only happens to bad people and justice is more than a pretty word. That excuse, of not knowing, of never once suspecting, of never having seen any sign beforehand? The students at my school don't have that.

And one day, when the ugly truth catches up with them, I hope they will remember me. I hope the knowledge of what they have done will _ruin_ them _forever_.

A hand around my wrist disrupts my venomous thoughts and brings me back to the present, where, apparently, Damon Salvatore has seen it fit to take a hold of me. The kick against his shin is pure reflex. Even that isn't enough to get rid of the amusement in his eyes though.

I've got to hand it to the guy, Damon really has beautiful eyes. But even the bright shade of blue, glittering like the far-away sea, can't hide the glacial coldness they hold. It's almost a shame really. Had I been three years older and Damon been genuinely interested, maybe we could have had something. He's the kind of guy I could have crushed on, that's for sure.

As it is, I'm underage and Damon holds enough ice in his heart not to care. And none of it matters, because I don't get involved with lost causes. That's how you keep yourself whole.

"You really need to learn to take a hint, Salvatore." My voice is remarkably steady. Maybe I shouldn't have laughed until tears were running down my face when my father's boyfriend suggested acting classes.

Damon Salvatore tilts his head like a curious bird. A curious bird with a razor-sharp smile and words that cut deeper than any knife can possibly get. The laser-like single-mindedness could be flattering, if it wasn't so damn uncomfortable. Yes, this is one man's attention I can do without.

"What can I say?" Salvatore smiles, wide and pleased and charming. It's the kind of smile you could become addicted to. And that's the problem, isn't it? "I'm a slow learner."

"You're certainly a slow something," I snipe back and take another step towards the exit. As amusing as this banter is, I don't feel comfortable with the way Salvatore is watching me. Especially not right now, with the memories so close to the surface.

The loud background music, the laughter of the other patrons, the taste of fried chips in the air and sticky, sweet alcohol on my tongue, make me feel dizzy. Dizzy and trapped. If I close my eyes for a moment, it's all too easy to imagine I'm back there. At the packed Lockwood manor, pushing my way through the crowd and trying not to spill the drinks I'm carrying. A hand on my shoulder, halting my progress. Just for a moment. A long moment.

I blink and I'm back. Back at the Grill, where people may lie to my face and laugh behind my back, but at least I'm out in the open. I'm safe. I wish my heart would get the message because right now it's racing in my chest, so hard, I'm afraid it's gonna give out any moment. I try to keep my breathing under control, to keep it together, but Damon Salvatore's hand is holding my forearm in a tight grip. Which really doesn't help matters.

Salvatore may not be the worst kind of predator out there, but right now, with his sharp eyes and unrelenting grip, he's close enough.

"Let me go." The words come out breathless, but the rage underneath is real. I'm not afraid. I refuse to be afraid. Being angry is so much easier.

Of course Salvatore doesn't listen. I don't know why I'm surprised. This guy sets my creep-radar off every time he so much as breathes.

"Hey," Salvatore says, quietly, and I reflexively look up from where I've been glaring at his hold on my arm to meet his eyes. "Calm down. Let's get you another drink. After all, you'd love to have me all to yourself tonight." The last part is said with a smirk a little too dangerous to count as teasing. It's also enough to snap me out of my funk.

For the record, I hate to be told what I want. Despise it.

"First, don't you _ever_ tell me what to do or feel." I can't even say the words normally, end up hissing them like a pissed off cat instead. "Second, the next time you conveniently ignore my _No_ , I'm getting a restraining order. Now, I'm gonna leave and you're gonna fuck off and bother someone else, got it?"

Seeing the stunned look on Salvatore's face is worth the attention my outburst has undoubtedly drawn. Stalking out of the Grill with a confidence I don't feel and having absolutely no one stop me or even slow me down? That feels pretty good too.

* * *

#

* * *

Since the Grill couldn't offer me the peace and quiet away from life I'm seeking, I decide I might as well put on my big girl panties and face reality head on. Today that means coming home at 9pm to a dark house—no doubt mom is pulling overtime again, brooding over files that hold too much data and not enough answers—and spending my Friday night in my room. On my computer.

What can I say? I lead an exciting life.

A quick check of my inbox proves that Chris has already sent me the pictures I asked for. No surprise there. Chris is so eager and helpful, it almost makes me uncomfortable. He also uses a lot of smileys in his messages.

One of the reasons I'm so thankful for my acquaintance with Chris is that he really knows what he's doing when it comes to taking pictures. I'm decent enough with a camera to collect evidence of a cheating boyfriend, but that's it. Chris doesn't just take a picture. He _makes_ a picture. Even with the sub-optimal conditions of a Halloween party with terrible lighting and constant flashes, the difference is stunning. Most of his shots are clear and sharp. Faces, costumes, decoration, couples making out. Chris has captured it all.

Staring at pictures of my school mates drinking, embarrassing themselves and generally having a great time, I can easily see the scene before me, as though I was really there. Parties like these, they're always the same. And shit but Chris doesn't pull his punches with these photos. He really has sent me everything. As I'm clicking through the pictures, I see more of certain students than I ever wanted to see. And who knew that Lacy and Gia were that close?

Very useful blackmail material aside though, it doesn't seem like I'm gonna find the answers to Vicky's whereabouts in these pictures. So far I haven't found a single one of her. Which is a shame, but it was a long shot. I've known that from the get-go.

 _Wait a second—_

I freeze, suppress the habitual click to the next picture. Go one back instead. It's a shot of a couple's very heated make-out session—and really, I'm gonna have a talk with Chris about keeping it PG one of these days—but in the background is Jeremy Gilbert. He's slightly out of focus, but it's definitely him. He's leaning against a wall, an odd expression on his face. There are dark stains on his white shirt, the reason he stands out so much, and his mouth is half-opened in a very unattractive way. Definitely an unfortunate angle.

I can't make out Vicky in any of the shapes near him though. Gilbert told me that he hadn't heard from Vicky in days, that they hadn't planned to come to the party. This shot must have been taken before she arrived. Would explain why he's lounging in the back too, probably sulking. A look at the time stamp tells me the photo's been taking at 10:48:23, a long time before the cops decided to break up the party.

Sadly that doesn't put me any closer to finding Vicky Donovan. On the bright side, I still have 746 photos to go through.

Lucky me.

* * *

#

* * *

It only takes me three hours, two cups of coffee and an entire pack of gummy worms to find her. Despite Chris' obsession to capture every moment of the party, there are only five pictures of Vicky. I've printed them out and spent the last half an hour staring at them. Waiting for them to tell me something I don't already know.

So far, the photos have kept their secrets to themselves.

I sigh. Stare down at a pretty face that looks older than she actually is. Looking down at these pictures, the ones _before_ , when everything still appears so damningly normal and none of the friends and family yet suspect what soon will happen, always sends a cold chill down my back.

Vicky Donovan pulling Jeremy Gilbert through the crowd. Click.

Vicky Donovan kissing Jeremy Gilbert. Click.

Vicky Donovan reaching for a cup of cheap beer. Click.

Vicky Donovan smiling at something the camera hasn't captured. Click.

Vicky Donovan rolling her eyes and giving the camera the bird. Click.

Vicky Donovan, live and in colour. A mere two hours before she disappeared of the face of the earth.

But whatever answers I've hoped to find in tracing Vicky's last few hours here in Mystic Falls, they continue to stubbornly elude me. The only thing I have actually learned is that Chris was right: Vicky's costume was fantastic. That or the step from junkie to vampire is a lot smaller and more natural than I previously thought.

The thought shouldn't make me grin, but it's not like anyone's around to watch and judge.

With a deep sigh, I stretch my arms above my head to release some of the tension in my back. Then I collect the photos and put them into the small file labelled _French Essays 07/08_ in my bookcase, where I keep all the details about the cases mom should never learn of.

At least tonight wasn't a total loss. Even if the most interesting tidbit hasn't been in any of the pictures involving Vicky at all. It's a snapshot of a group of cheerleaders laughing as some guy balances a red plastic cup of beer on his head. To the left, there is one third of Elena Gilbert, apparently arguing with three thirds of Damon Salvatore visible.

Damon Salvatore. At a high school party. Now, I haven't been part of that scene in a while, but if there's one thing I know for certain that men older than twenty don't make it a habit to hang around high schoolers. Certainly not good-looking men like Damon Salvatore. He seems like a sleazy asshole, sure, but even sleazy assholes tend to prefer college parties. For many, obvious reasons.

Of course, there might be a perfectly reasonable explanation as to why Damon Salvatore is there. Maybe he brought Stefan. Who drives his own car. Maybe Stefan called him because he drank something and was being responsible. Right. Calling the brother he can't stand if the rumour mill is to be trusted. Sure. Maybe Elena Gilbert has a thing for her boyfriend's older brother.

Okay, that thought is enough to crack me up. Saintly Elena two-timing two brothers? It'd be more likely for me to have a following of adoring fans, eager to fulfil my every wish.

Whatever, I'm getting off topic. The point is, Damon Salvatore seems like the kind of asshole Vicky could've made a deal with. She had to get out of town somehow after all. And I've heard Salvatore has a sweet ride.

It's a good thing, I suppose, that I've been making friends with Salvatore since we've started running into each other. I'm sure he'll just fall over himself to tell me everything I want to know. Out of the goodness of his pure, white heart.

 _Yeah_. That sounds about right.

For the record, that lovely lady karma? Not a fan of her.

 **End of Chapter III**

* * *

 _Author's note: As always I'd really appreciate your feedback! I'm unsure of how quickly I wanna move things along. V needs time to figure out that there is something supernatural going on but at the same time, not much else can happen whilst she isn't in the know. I'm not gonna rush it regardless, but I hope you find the story intriguing even though we haven't had much drama yet! Then again, there is that confrontation between her and Tyler... Any suspicions? And did any of you read between the lines in her confrontation with Damon (or was I that obvious)? But yeah, just tell me what you think in the comments please :)_

 _Have a wonderful day, everybody! Love, ReRe_


	4. V is for Virginity

**Note: _I'M SO SORRY FOR THE WAIT!_** _This chapter seriously did NOT want to be written. I have no idea what the problem was, the first half was really easy but after that *shakes head despairingly* Anyways, to make it up to you, I made it a very long chapter. That's something, right? *looks up hopefully*_

 _Once again many thanks to every single one of you who reads this story and of course especially to all you kind reviewers! You're the ones helping me to stay motivated and keep telling V's story!_

 _Guest: I can't make any promises regarding the pairing one way or another, although I did crack up at your suggestion. I'll definitely keep that in mind (that said, Klaus and Kol are roughly the same age, I mean they come from the same time. And sure, Kol was daggered more often, but he's still really old, comparatively. But yeah, it would be funny.) That said, Damon will be an important character one way or another, for plot-y reasons. (aka a lack of other vampires running around obviously enough that might clue V in to what's going on). And Dana is actually not Damon's next victim, as far as I'm aware. She could become one, but in canon she survived til the 3rd season. Thank you for your review!_

 _Emilyh16: Thank you, I'm so flattered you like the story! Damon and V could definitely be friends, under the right circumstances. That said, we're dealing with asshole-Damon atm, so things could go sideways really fast... Guess we'll have to wait and see ;)_

 _.Winchester.17: Thanks for your comments, I'm glad you're enjoying the story! I honestly never thought about who'd play Veronica. But I guess she'd either be a mix between Candice Accola and Kristen Bell or just look the same. Her genetic parents are the same after all, so it wouldn't be unreasonable for her to look the same._

 _L: Thank you, dear! I'm glad you like the story and hope you enjoy the new chapter! :)_

 _Summary:_ In which bribery is the Forbes' family trade, way too many insults are flung around, becoming involved in relationship drama is the last thing anyone (especially V) wants, jocks aren't shown in a positive light, and Veronica tries to make a friend.

 _Happy reading!_

* * *

 **| Chapter IV: V is for Virginity |**

* * *

 _We are all the products of someone else's broken promises._

— _Roger Zea_

* * *

 **[** Mystic Falls 7th of November, 2009The Forbes' Home **]**

It's rare for Mom to be home on a Saturday. It's even rarer for her to have a cup of coffee made just the way I like it waiting for me on the counter, while she's searching our fridge for something that hasn't expired yet.

The coffee is still hot, so hot, I burn my tongue on the first sip, but I really couldn't care less. Even though I slept a solid seven hours, I feel like it's been maybe three. Between weird dreams of a drug-addicted vampire Vicky running around me in circles, cackling like a madwoman, and Lockwood's words haunting me deep into my subconsciousness, I haven't had a restful moment all night.

I'll have to work on that. If the nightmares come back, I doubt there's anything I can do to convince mom I don't need a psychologist this time. The first time around was hard enough.

The coffee tastes great. It's made even better by the fact that it's slowly reanimating my brain cells.

"Thank you," I try to say, still drinking. Predictably, I choke and almost spill the rest of the coffee, thanks to the inevitable coughing fit. But I think Mom gets the general idea, if her suspiciously twitching lips are anything to go by. And Mrs. Lockwood insists I get my twisted side from my father. Sure.

But before I get enough air back into my lungs to complain about it, Mom sets a whole can down in front of me. Which would be amazing and possibly push me to embarrassing, thankful tears if it weren't for the fact that I'm awake enough to be suspicious now.

I raise my eyebrows at her in a clear _What did you do now_? gesture. One that would probably be a lot more impressive if I wasn't still gasping for breath. Mom's gaze shifts a little to the left for just a sec, before she meets my stare head on, determined. Meaning she's feeling guilty.

"Veronica-" she starts hesitantly, and I know what Mom's going to say, before she continues.

"You're ditching our family dinner," I interrupt. The words come out harsher than I intend, and Mom winces, which is as much an admission as anything she could have said out loud. I bite my tongue—gently, I'm no fan of pain, thank you very much—to keep from apologising reflexively. Or saying something worse. It's a fifty-fifty chance, what with the knowledge that Mom doesn't get to chose when important work rolls in waring with the heavy disappointment I can't squash.

Thanks to Mom's job and my own, less than schedule-friendly hobby, we don't have many family traditions to uphold. But the ones we have are important. They matter. They're the only proof, the only reminder I have left that we are a real family—and not just the leftovers of a broken one.

"I'm sorry, sweetheart." Mom runs a hand through her short hair. It's dead give-away of how stressed she is. That and the shadows under her eyes. "Reed just called in sick and the station is already running on graveyard shift as it is." She takes a step towards me, gently squeezes my shoulders.

I want to pull away, to say something sharp and hurtful, but I can't remember the last time Mom looked fit and energised. _It's not fair_ , I want to whine because it isn't. But what is complaining going to achieve, except make my mom feel even worse for ditching me?

"Not your fault," I answer dejectedly. "I guess you'll just have to make homemade pineapple pizza for lunch to make it up to me." I sigh dramatically. "And then take some of it to the station and eat it while Jack pouts about not getting any and Frederick starts another tirade on what belongs and does not belong on a proper pizza."

The thought makes me smile despite discontent churning in my gut. When Mom throws her head back with a throaty laugh before promising with twinkling eyes that I'll get all the pineapple pizza I want and she'll send me pictures of Frederick's disapproving face, that helps too.

I take another sip of my coffee and sit down on our tiny kitchen table while Mom piles some not yet expired yogurt and cornflakes on the table. We desperately need to go shopping. But for now, I've got breakfast with my mom and a full can of coffee. And for a bribe, it tastes damn good.

All in all? Not a bad start into the weekend.

* * *

#

* * *

 **[** Mystic Falls 7th of November, 2009 Target **]**

Since Mom is busy at the station for the rest of the day, it falls to me to ensure we'll make it through the weekend without starving. Also that I get that promised pineapple pizza because I'm so going to hold my mom to that.

Okay, I'll admit it: I'm not a very good housemate. I hate buying groceries and I avoid doing laundry like it's liable to get me killed. I'm fine with cooking and dish duty, and even the occasional dusting and cleaning, but that's it. Buying groceries is still the worst though. Way worse than any of the other stuff. And not because I like to think that I have better things to do than boring chores, but because it involves going outside and interacting with people.

More specifically—because Mystic Falls is exactly as non-diverse as you'd expect it to be—interacting with bored, gossipy, middle-aged house wives who have nothing else to do except plan their children's future and trash talk about things they know nothing about.

Charming.

The only bright side is that my dislike for these women is decidedly mutual: most of them are parents of fellow school mates of mine. I grew up with these folks. Went to the birthday parties, the sleepovers, the lunches and picnics. To half these women I'm the worst that-could-have-been-my-daughter scenario they can imagine come to life. The other half is convinced I'm going to tempt their perfect, little boys to the dark side.

I like to treat it like a game: how many women can I get to make the Face—the one that looks like they've bitten into a lemon and are in too polite company to do anything but swallow and compliment the taste—on a quick stroll through the supermarket. My record is twenty-eight. Granted that was the day before christmas and most of the people were scowling before I ever entered their sight, but I like to think I did my fair share of ruining their day as well.

Payback is only fair after all.

Today I'm not really in the mood to play. I mostly keep my head down—metaphorically speaking, because it will be a cold day in hell before I bow to anyone in this town—and my earbuds in, focused on what I'll need to get through the coming days, what I'll want, what mom will need, what she'll want, and what I really shouldn't buy but will anyways.

Funny how those categories don't match as much as they probably should.

I'm contemplating the wisdom of buying one bag of chips—an acceptable amount that definitely will not be enough to make up for the nerves my current case load is going to cost me—versus the much more realistic three, when another cart rounds the corner to my row.

A cart that is unfortunately pushed by none other than Elena Gilbert.

I can't even say I'm surprised. Well, actually I am surprised. It only takes a few moments for me to realise that I shouldn't be. With her parents dead and her aunt having a job, not to mention Elena being annoyingly responsible most of the time, it makes sense for her to step up and take care of things around the house.

Clearly that includes going grocery shopping on Saturdays. Once again proving my point about groceries being the worst chore ever.

Elena seems just as unprepared to run into me as I feel. She freezes for a moment, her lips forming a soundless "Oh," before she shakes her head minutely and tries for an awkward smile.

"Hey Veronica," she greets. Because god forbid Elena be anything less than polite. It makes me want to smear salsa sauce into her stupidly long, healthy-looking hair. Or maybe throw the glass so hard it'll knock her out cold while I make a run for it—and alright, that's just ridiculous. I'm bitter, not completely unreasonable.

"Elena." I nod.

The ensuing silence weights down heavily on the both of us. My tongue itches with the desire to make a quip, throw out an insult, anything to disperse the building pressure. I bite down the urge ruthlessly. There's not taking any shit from people who have no damn right to judge me, and then there is being a total bitch and tearing people down left and right.

Despite everything, it's not a line I truly want to cross. I did, for a bit, right after everything happened. When the need to hurt Elena, to hurt Bonnie and Tyler and Ryan fucking Johnson was so overwhelming I couldn't see anything beyond it. But there's something to be said about time. It may not have healed the wounds, but it has cooled the rage, turned it into something colder and sharper. Less bark, more bite.

Elena shifts, probably as desperate for a way to end this encounter as I am. Her gaze settles on the contents of my cart, and suddenly she's grinning. The shift throws me off guard, leaves me utterly unprepared for the force of her bright grin. The one that's so light and happy and familiar, it _aches_.

"Is it pineapple pizza day again?" Elena asks. The amusement lightens her eyes into a warm brown that reminds me of liquid honey and my lips quirk into a sardonic grin despite myself.

"Every day is pineapple pizza day," I shoot back. The answer is reflexive, has become so deeply ingrained I don't even have to think about it. It's an old joke that's been shared so often between us it isn't funny anymore but still makes us smile for all the good memories attached to it. And it's so easy, for that one second, to fall back into the routine, to forget everything that has changed. Some habits are hard to shake.

Elena laughs softly, shakes her head with the same mixture of curiosity, disbelief and humour she's always regarded pineapple pizza with. It's been my thing for as long as I can remember. One of those stupid, silly things my friends used to indulge but never truly got. "Yeah, I remember," Elena says fondly.

I wonder if those memories hold the same stale taste for her that they do for me.

We stare at each other for another moment, neither saying something or breaking the gaze. Being Elena's friend used to be so easy, and right now I can almost imagine how it would be like to slide back into that spot. I shake off the pointless speculation right away. There's no use in questioning the choice I made a year ago. Not anymore.

"I should get going," I hear myself say.

"Right." Elena nods. Tries for another smile, but this one falls flat where the first one did not. "It was nice seeing you."

I don't snort in disbelief, unwilling to destroy the fragile truce right now, but it's a close thing. "Sure," I say non-committally and turn back to the shelf in front of me.

Elena takes several steps before she stops once more, calls out to me. "Veronica…" Her voice trails off as I turn around. Look at her expectantly.

But Elena doesn't say anything. Just looks at me for a long moment, then shakes her head and disappears behind another row.

The weirdest part is, this must have been the most civil conversation Elena and I have shared in months. And yet I feel tired, drawn in a way our usual shouting matches never really achieved. Maybe it's because of how much it reminds me of how things between us used to be.

Elena, for all her flaws, was a great friend. She was my second best friend in the world and for most of my life I would have trusted her with anything. And when my life came crashing down around my ears, when I was lost and panicking and desperately searching for something to hold on to, Elena was the first person I went to. I needed comfort, I needed steadfast support, and Elena didn't disappoint.

I remember that day like it's been burnt into my mind. Not all of it. It's not like a scene from a movie that I know by heart. It's more fragmented than that, but just as clear. Like a slide show.

I remember how hot my face felt. Like I had a fever, like my skin was wrapped too tightly around my bones. I remember how I couldn't stop crying, even though there was make-up dripping all over my face and some part of me recognised that I was making a spectacle of myself. Recognised and cared.

I remember the look on Elena's face. For the life of me, I can't recall how I told her. Can't remember the words I used, no matter how hard I search for the memory. But that look. The look on Elena's face when the words processed, when understanding replaced worry, _that_ I will carry with me for the rest of my life. It's the same look I've seen on countless other faces, before and after. That horrified, almost disbelieving, deep-rooted pain. The helplessness of wanting so badly to help, to fix, yet understanding that nothing you do, nothing you say will make it better. It's the same look Elena gave me when I told her about my parents' break-up. And yet somehow this one was different. This one stands out in my mind, hit me deeper than any of the others ever did.

I remember how safe Elena's hug felt. How tightly she clung to me, like she could hold me together through sheer stubbornness and willpower alone. How she smelled of the new perfume we'd bought a few days before at the mall. I remember the tears in her eyes and how her voice trembled when she asked me what she could do.

I remember her mother Miranda offering me homemade lemonade and cake. I remember eating and drinking and not tasting a thing, but mostly I remember crying a lot.

I remember the fire in Elena's eyes, later that afternoon when we were curled up in her bed together, as she swore that he wouldn't get away with this. _Whatever it takes, Nika. I swear_.

Taking a deep, if slightly unsteady breath I force myself to push the memories aside. There's no point in revelling in how the world used to be. It's in the past now and that's where it's going to stay. Because I refuse to break down in the middle of a damn Target, surrounded by people who hate me. I refuse to break down period.

So promises get broken. Big fucking deal. Grow up, Veronica. There are no heroes and certainly no happily ever afters in real life. Only people. And people lie.

With renewed resolution I turn back to the task at hand and put another two bags of chips into my cart. If this morning is any indication, there's no way one bag will be enough for me to make it through the weekend.

* * *

#

* * *

 **[** Mystic Falls 7th of November, 2009 Forbes' Home **]**

Since my Saturday has unexpectedly cleared up, I spend most of the afternoon catching up on my sadly neglected homework—it's surprising how time-consuming sneaking around behind my mother's back to search for missing girls can be—and stalking the wonderfully honest, pure-hearted people of Mystic Falls. Really, it's a miracle I haven't been arrested yet.

Okay, no. Not really. I'm on first name basis with half the sherif department. Not very _just_ perhaps, but it's rare enough that personal relationships work in my favour. I take what I can get.

In any case, by the time dinner rolls around I'm done with math, biology and French. And Ryan Johnson still doesn't have a new girlfriend. Maybe then at least I'd have something interesting to watch.

…and I do not mean that as dirty as it sounds. Like at all. The last thing I want is to watch anyone get lucky, trust me. I'm way too involved in this town's dirty secrets and the sex lives of my fellow students as it is.

Anyways, with Mom at the station and unlikely to get home before ten at the earliest, I make myself dinner and eat with the TV running in the background. There's a couple of news reports, but none close to the area or all that interesting.

It's only half past six and I'm drying my plate over the kitchen sink, contemplating the wisdom of what I've been half-planning since I discovered the picture of Damon Salvatore at the Halloween party. It's a dumb plan. And I mean really, really dumb.

But the fact remains, if I want to know what the older Salvatore knows, I need to become the kind of person he tells things. Usually, I'd do some kind of trade, find something Damon wants to bargain with. Or, you know, blackmail him.

The problem is, as closely as the Salvatores are entwined with this town's history—and trust me, they are, thanks to Mrs. Lockwood's many lectures about the Founding Families I'm all too aware of that—Damon and Stefan are new in town. Whatever dirty secrets they have, it's unlikely I'll find any evidence here. That's the downside of a fresh start. Doesn't give me a lot of ammunition to work with.

Doesn't mean there is no dirt to dig up though. I make a mental note to run a background check on the Salvatores soonish. Just in case.

In the meantime—and because I lack super coding skills or a handy hacker bff—I'm gonna have to rely on the most powerful of all hacks: the social one. _Make people want to give you what you want_. Besides, as surprising as it may be, I don't always go out of my way to antagonise the people around me. My fellow students just tend to bring out the best in me.

But getting on Damon Salvatore's good side shouldn't be too hard. He approached me again only a day after I blew him off, _hard_ , so he either gets off on it—which, eww, thanks for that brain, I did not need to think that, definitely going back to Plan Blackmail if that's the case—or desperate. Not necessarily for me or even sex either. Company maybe?

The rumour mill—meaning Dana—tells me the Salvatore brothers' had a falling-out. A vicious one, if Dana's retelling of Elena's whispered conversation with Bonnie is to be believed. Apparently an old friend of Stefan's dropped by and caused some trouble in a towel. Not sure how relevant that last part is, but Dana was very insistent. Whatever the case, my short phone call with Dana as well as a quick chat with Matt make it clear that Damon Salvatore has become a regular at the Grill ever since he first got into town. Or, more precisely, the Grill's bar.

And I've done it again. Thought about my conversation with Matt when I swore I wouldn't.

The only way to describe my relationship with Matt is—weird. Yeah. Let's go with 'weird'. I mean, we do get along pretty well, considering I spend a lot of time yelling nasty shit at his now ex-girlfriend. But we don't exactly get along well because, well. I do spend a lot of time yelling nasty shit at his now ex-girlfriend.

In a way, I like Matt because he isn't an outright asshole to me. He never was. Not even right after everything went down last year, when all the wounds were still raw and bleeding. Matt just isn't the type of guy to snap at a girl, never mind hit one. Not that he's big on attacking boys either. Matt is one of those easy-going types, who never looses his cool and is friends with everyone.

But therein lies my greatest problem with Matt as well: He is nice to _everyone_. Hell, I've been an absolute bitch to the girl he loves for the better part of a year, and all he ever does is smile at me and greet me like there's nothing wrong. Like I'm still part of his friend circle. Maybe it's a sign that he's more mature, more grown-up than the rest of us, but mostly it just creeps me out.

Chris, at least has a reason to like me. Matt doesn't. He's got every reason not to, actually. Which is why I take everything he says with a grain of salt. Just in case.

Anyways, the point is, it's Saturday evening. Considering everything I know and have heard about Damon Salvatore, he's most likely to be at the Grill. My presence won't look out of place there either, not with all the other students milling around. And finally, my Mom's ditched me to be a responsible adult and protect this town from itself.

All in all, everything adds up to one simple truth: it's the perfect time to enact _Plan A: Befriend Damon Salvatore_. Or, failing that, piss him off into admitting some juicy details and fuck with Toby-the-bartender's mind. Because I have not forgotten that bastard's virgin drinks. I take people messing with my drinks very seriously.

Too bad those delicious revenge plans will have to wait. For the time being I'm stuck standing in front of my closet, thoughtfully tapping my chin as I try to decide what kind of persona I want to pull off tonight. As though Mom hears my scheming, my phone vibrates with a message from her.

 _Working late. Do you have any plans? Ly_

I love how Mom always asks about my plans. Almost as though I still have people to make plans with. It's sweet of her to uphold the illusion.

I feel a little guilty for answering with a quick ' _Just the usual. Lyt_ ', but only a little.

Half a second later, my phone buzzes again. _OK. Take care. Don't forget the taser_.

And that, I think with a small smile, is one of the many, many reasons why I love my mom.

* * *

#

* * *

 **[** Mystic Falls 7th of November, 2009 Mystic Grill **]**

Entering the Grill, I allow myself a moment to properly take my surroundings in. It seems to be an average Saturday night. There are a lot of students milling about, playing pool, and generally having a fun night out. The warm air is filled with laughter and the quiet hum of conversations. It's familiar, relaxing even.

At least until I pay closer attention. Recognising the faces around me always puts a bit of a damper on my mood. Because recognising them means they recognise me too—and most of the time that only leads to trouble.

Right now though, the usual suspects seem to be too busy to bother me. I spot Lockwood in the back corner of the Grill, leaning against a pool table with a cocky smirk on his lips. Surrounded by his football buddies, he kinda reminds me of a preening peacock, putting on a show for the audience. Elena and Bonnie are nowhere to be seen, and neither is Jeremy Gilbert. Thank god for small mercies. I'm pretty sure the brunette standing with her back to me at the bar, giggling with her friends, his Dana though. Distracted and possibly tipsy—except, of course that Dana doesn't drink, so maybe just happy. Then there is Matt—not one of my usual worries, but considering I sought him out not three hours ago, he might feel inclined to reach out—who's busy rushing from table to table.

And finally, at the far end of the bar, is my target, Damon Salvatore.

I take a deep, settling breath and straighten my shoulders. It's time to befriend an asshole.

Considering my track record, that shouldn't be too hard.

All I have to do is avoid all the former friends and spiteful bitches, chat up Salvatore unobtrusively, and get him to like me. Piece of cake.

It's pure sarcasm, but the moment I finish the thought, I blink and tilt my head thoughtfully.

 _On second thought…_

* * *

#

* * *

Jordan Simmons is a senior, a football player, in a relationship, and a bit of an asshole. Granted, most teenagers are, and he's definitely not the worst of the lot. Compared to Lockwood you might even call him decent.

That doesn't make him any less furious when I collide with him at full speed on my way to one of the last free tables furthest away from the pool tables though. Nope, not at all.

Instead he makes a chocked, high-pitched sound that is half aborted whine, half enraged yell. In his defence, our collision has knocked one of the two drinks he was carrying out of his hand and spilled the other one over his formerly pretty nice looking shirt.

"What the—watch where you're going, bitch!" Simmons snaps.

I remember a time when guys would at the very least offer an off-handed apology during similar incidents, if not take the blame for themselves. It's been a long time since I've gotten that reaction though. Sometimes, like right now, when I'm focused and looking for it, I can even see the exact moment that reflexive ' _Sorry_ ' dies on their lips. That moment when they realise whom they've run into.

There's a lingering bitterness clinging to that observation, tainting it, but I've grown used to brushing it off by now. And besides any frustration I might have felt at the various injustices of life are drowned out by the raging fury Simmons' carelessly uttered insult evokes.

It's silly. I've been called a slut, a whore, and a lot of utter, much more detailed, explicit, nasty shit. The kind a bunch of bored, pissed off teenagers come up with, when stuck together in the same building for eight hours a day. Bitch is hardly the worst insult that's been flung at me—hell, at least it's one I've actually _earned_.

Shouldn't that take the sting out of the word? Besides it's not like I care about what some unimportant football player thinks of me. It's not like it hurts.

And yet. My eyes narrow as I force my growing anger to turn into something sharp and cold, something steely and unrelenting. I'm good at that. At twisting my emotions into what I want them to be, using them to fuel me when nobody else will.

And yeah, I blame the stupid meditation exercises my father used to coach me through back when I was a kid.

"Excuse me?" I snap back venomously. "I think you're confusing me with your slutty girlfriend, Simmons. Or is it true that you and your brother really do share _everything_?"

Ironically, when you want people to stop calling you a bitch to your face, you need to act like one. That and the stunned look on Simmons' face is damn satisfying.

"Aww," I coo mockingly, because there's no point in pulling your punches when you're reenforcing a point, "Don't tell me you didn't know. After all you're used to being second best, aren't you?"

Simmons winces, hurt edged into his features that his shallow anger just can't cover. It's the kind of wince born from an old pain that you've long since grown used to, yet still catches you by surprise every once in a while. I almost feel bad for the guy. Almost. But that annoying empathy is easily brushed off as I turn my back on the speechless jock. It's not like I've told him anything he didn't already know. I'm not sure why—it's not like keeping up the pretence will save his wreck of a relationship Simmons' got going—but denial must have its own kind of appeal.

I guess some people prefer to live in the weathered-down remains and pretend it's a mansion, rather than getting their asses out of bed and work on turning the mess around them into a proper home. I guess, but I don't think I'll ever understand.

Toby is manning the bar again. I'm still a little pissed at the shit he pulled yesterday, but for the time being a dark glare will have to suffice. Storming up towards him, which just so happens to bring me close to Salvatore's side, I order a rum and coke in the most demanding manner possible.

He doesn't protest. Nor card me. Maybe Toby can see the unspoken threats in my eyes this time. Who's to say people don't learn from their mistakes?

"Tough night?" Salvatore drawls questioningly from besides me. He's holding an almost empty glass in one hand, slowly swirling the liquid around.

I send him my patented _Back the fuck off_ smirk, not that it seems to impress him very much. With his attitude, he has no doubt been on the wrong end of more than one very pissed off woman, so I guess that's not surprising. "Try tough year," I drawl right back.

And ain't that the truth.

Whatever response Salvatore might have given is interrupted by Toby placing my drink on the bar in front of me. I give the glass a suspicious sniff—yeah, definitely rum—before I hand the guy his money. Not gonna fall for the same trick twice, thank you very much.

If Toby is offended by my distrust he hides it well. Not that I give a damn. He's still on the list after all. And maybe Toby can feel my not so subtle dislike for him, because he does a great job of occupying himself on the opposite end of the bar.

"You're here a lot," Salvatore comments off-handedly after a few moments of silence.

I tilt my head, but don't look directly at him. _Don't engage too eagerly_ , I remind myself. _You're pissed, at Simmons, the rest of those stupid jocks, and the world, not looking to make friends_. "So are you," I respond and take a slow sip from my rum and coke. It's still a lot more coke than rum, but I can't fault Toby for that. It's not like rum tastes good on its own, I should probably be thankful that I've gotten a watered down version. Not that this gets him off my shit list, because duh.

Salvatore snorts, but doesn't deny it. I raise my eyebrows at that, and finally face him. "Why is that anyways?" I ask curiously. Maybe it's a dumb move, but the way I see it, Salvatore could use some company. Regulars at the Grill usually do.

It's one of the main reasons why I stop by regularly despite my unfortunate status as a social pariah actually. I don't often indulge in alcohol, but spending time with people who do leaves you with the most interesting stories and valuable information. Most of my cases lately have centred around my high school, which is why I've been neglecting my chats with Willy, Mr. Quent, and Old Baltimore, relying on my mother as the main source regarding the "adult gossip" instead.

But with how stressed and withdrawn mom has become, I think I'll have to pay them another visit soon. Can't allow myself to become too out of touch with the ongoings in my town now, can I?

With a shrug, Salvatore turns back to his drink. "Family troubles." I blink, surprised at what I'm pretty sure is an honest answer. Though Salvatore doesn't say the words the way most people would. He doesn't look down or depressed, if anything he looks—contemplative. The scheming look on his face is soon replaced by an obnoxious smirk however. "They just can't handle my awesomeness."

"Yeah." I deadpan. "I'm sure _that's_ the problem."

Salvatore gasps, dramatically pressing a hand against his chest. "You wound me, Blondie!"

I scoff, but my lips twitch despite myself. "Please. If I manage to take your ego down just one notch, I'm doing all of womenkind a favour."

It's Salvatore's turn to snort, even as he gestures for a refill. "Admit it, you're just afraid you can't handle all of _this_." He gestures meaningfully at his whole body. "Don't feel too bad about it, Missy, most girls can't."

I let the challenge wash over me unacknowledged, allow myself another long look at Damon Salvatore instead. The confidence that's dripping off his posture in spades—or is that attitude? The wicked look in those blue, blue eyes that makes so many promises, none of them safe. The lose jeans and leather jacket that hide a strong, muscular built that probably gives him an advantage in many a bar fight.

No, I don't doubt that most girls can't handle Damon Salvatore. And I'm not disillusioned enough to think of myself as an exception.

It's not that I don't see the appeal, I'm not blind. It's not even that I'm here for answers, for business, rather than pleasure.

"Oh dear, you've seen right through me," I whisper in exaggerated horror. And to think that Bonnie used to give me shit for those drama classes I took. "However will I survive without your magnificent self guiding me through this dark, purposeless existence?"

I can already see another playful answer forming on Salvatore's lips, but before the words can be voiced, his gaze suddenly flickers, focuses on something behind me. I turn around, not in the least surprised to see Lockwood storming towards me.

 _So predictable._

"You!" he growls once I meet his furious gaze, points an accusing finger at me as though that word alone encompasses every grave insult he wants to hurl at me.

"Me," I nod serenely, if only to piss him off more. Our last argument still weighs way too heavily on my mind. _I'm gonna enjoy this_.

"Stay away from my friends!" Lockwood continues his less than impressive tirade. Always so touchy, so protective. If only he didn't focus on protecting the wrong people. "Just because you ruined your life doesn't give you the right to tear everybody else down!"

It's said harsh, but fairly quiet. Apparently Lockwood is smart enough not to start something in the middle of the Grill, where grown-up witnesses are around that might actually interfere, were he to cross a line. Not that I'm gonna count on that, but it's a nice thought.

"Why?" I smile a saccharine sweet smile that makes my teeth ache. "Can't handle the truth, Lockwood?" Because no matter how or why we argue, that's what it always comes down to, isn't it? That one question that decided our priorities, drew a line in the sand that we weren't even aware was separating us until it was far too late.

"Sure, like this is about the truth. Don't give me that high horse bullshit, Forbes." Lockwood rolls his eyes, the disgust in his tone clear as day. "You just wanna hurt everyone around you for some imagined slight. It's pathetic."

The saccharine smile stays frozen on my lips. "If it's so pathetic, then I'm sure you've got nothing to worry about. I mean, it's not like there's some deep, dark secret hidden in the perfect Lockwood family, right?" I say lightly. "After all, it's hardly a secret that you'll never measure up to daddy's expectations, is it? I suppose you're lucky you don't have a brother like Simmons does. The major has no choice but to make the best with what he's got."

The words hit and they hit deeply, like I knew they would. Lockwood rears back like I've slapped him, a sudden pallor in his cheeks that even the dim lights don't hide. It's satisfying to know that, for all that he knows how to cut me to the bone, I'm still more than capable of returning the favour.

"Just stay away from my friends, Forbes," Lockwood growls after a moment of struggling for his composure. "You won't like what I'll do the next time you cross a line." His gaze flickers to Damon Salvatore, who seems thoroughly entertained by the show. "Interesting choice in boy toys. I guess one slut attracts another, hm?"

I smirk. "Still sore your ex-girlfriend got around and had some actually satisfying fun, Lockwood?"

That earns me another snarl, before Lockwood finally seems to realise that he isn't going to catch me off-guard like he did the other day. Today I'm fighting to _obliterate_. It's extremely satisfying to watch him storm off like a temper-tantrum throwing three year old. Which is actually a pretty accurate description, now that I think about it.

"Interesting reputation you've got there, blondie." Salvatore comments, voice light as though he couldn't care less. There's a certain intrigue in his eyes though, and I only barely manage to suppress a knowing smirk. Yet another lesson in human nature for beginners: we all thrive on drama in the end, we just can't help it.

I briefly consider throwing the statement back at him, then just as quickly discard the option. I'm not here to banter, for all that Salvatore makes a decent sparring partner. Here's another fun fact about humans: if you want something from them, you don't ask for it. You give them something instead. It's the most basic lesson in manipulation and all the more powerful because it works, even when you know it's happening. That's not to say people will suddenly blurt out their deepest, darkest secrets, of course. Just that they'll be inclined to give something back.

Besides, it's not like what I'm about to reveal is in any shape or form a secret. And when the people around you make fun of one of your most painful memories, there's only one way to meet them on equal grounds; by turning your most defining mistake into the sharpest weapon in your arsenal.

So I lean closer towards Salvatore and ask with a joking air that only barely softens the icy demeanour underneath, "Yes, well, would you like to know how I lost my virginity?" It's phrased as a challenge, a vicious dare that allows for no backing down. Because I won't. I'm not running from this, I've never run from this. And why not tell the new guy on my own terms a story the whole town already knows?

"Sure." Salvatore grins—a grin full of dirty implications and _please don't leave any details out_ —but his eyes are sharp, attentive, and I suspect he already knows that's not what I'm gonna do.

I smile, my sweetest, most innocent smile. The one I perfected years ago on another one of Mrs. Lockwood's endless tea parties. "So would I," I murmur with a softness the confession doesn't deserve.

Something flashes over Salvatore's face, an expression gone too fast for me to interpret, not that I really want to. I've seen all kinds of reactions to my statement, and few of them were encouraging. More than that though, Salvatore is a stranger. I don't need his pity or understanding or whatever the best case scenario to such a admission is. More than that I don't want it. Because the people I wanted it from, desperately, weren't willing to give it, and receiving it second-hand from some guy I've exchanged like four words with seems—cheap. Like rubbing salt into an ever-burning wound.

In the end, Salvatore shrugs. "Well, he can't have been all that impressive if you can't even remember him. Let me guess, that pitiful ex-boyfriend of yours that just threw a tantrum?"

I blink. Then, once I've processes his response, I throw my head back and laugh. An honest to god, belly-deep laugh. I can't help it. Heck, I don't even know why I'm laughing. Maybe because the thought of me and Tyler together like that will never stop be freaking hilarious. Maybe because this is the least dramatic reaction I've ever gotten. Maybe I just haven't gotten enough sleep lately. That would explain a lot.

"Yeah, no. Definitely no. Lockwood and I have never and will never date, believe me," I finally manage to gasp out between the occasional chuckle.

Salvatore raises a disbelieving eyebrow, earning himself a shrug. "No, really. We were friends once, but that was a long time ago," I admit in a calmer voice.

 _Friends_. That's one way to describe it, I guess, though it certainly isn't the whole truth. Elena and Bonnie were two of my best friends, that much is true. But they weren't The Best Friend. That spot had been taken by Tyler Lockwood since he stole my pink bike only a week after my family moved to Mystic Falls. We were inseparable after that. Tyler was the one who taught me how to throw a punch (which then prompted my father to give me some proper self-defence training). Tyler was the one who cut off Elle Carter's hair in second grade because she made me cry and he wasn't allowed to hit a girl. Tyler was the one who sneaked in through my window with a black eye when we were fourteen and curled up with me around my laptop to watch Doctor Who.

Tyler was my best friend, my closest confidant, the one I trusted with all the dumb, silly things I couldn't share with Elena or Bonnie. Tyler was the one who threatened to give that GHB using bastard an alibi if I didn't drop the negligable matter of a fucking rape.

To say our friendship crashed and burned would be a gross understatement.

I shake myself out of those dark memories—the ones that used to be good, back before they were tainted by all those accusations we threw at each other, all those insults we threw back and forth because we knew each other too well not to know exactly where to hit. We still do. Some habits are hard to break—and focus on Salvatore instead. Who's watching me curiously.

"You know, I could show you how to have a great time. I guarantee you, you wouldn't forget any of it," Salvatore says with a smirk dripping in arrogance. But despite that, the words aren't as suggestive as they sound, are said more as a statement than anything else. Salvatore isn't leaning any closer either. Strange.

"Nah, thanks." Because yeah, I want to get closer to Salvatore, but I doubt sex is gonna be my way in. And even if it was, I'm not gonna sell myself. Certainly not for Vicky Donovan. "I've sworn off boys since that particular fiasco."

"Oh, trust me, blondie, I'm all man," Salvatore purrs, his bright eyes heavy-lidden as he fixates me with a smouldering look. He's still keeping his distance though, which is nice.

"Yeah, sworn off those too." I give him another sweet grin and take a sip from my rum and coke. "So, what's your deal? You've been here every time I've come by lately, and I have it in good authority that the drinks here aren't that good. Pretty sure you could afford better."

"But then I'd deprive Mystic Falls finest of my company, a cruelty even I am not capable of!" Salvatore drawled with the kind of self-satisfied smirk that generally makes me want to hit something. Preferably him.

Still, no answer is also an answer. Namely a _Back the fuck off I'm not talking and you can't make me_ kind of answer. My specialty. It's not as fun when someone else is doing the deflecting, but I wasn't expecting this to be a simple task anyways. Pushing will only piss Salvatore off, and since I need him, I'm gonna go with the obvious response.

"Oh however would we cope?" I widen my eyes in pretended horror. "I for one can scarcely imagine a time where your all-encompassing kindness, warmth and beauty did not serve as a guiding light to lead us!"

Like I said. Drama classes aren't a waste of time, trust me. They're worth every minute, if only to see Damon Salvatore gaping at you for a short moment before he shakes his head and snorts something that might have actually been a laugh. Okay, it's kind of fun to banter like this. I blame my stupid fellow students though. Clearly I'm friendly-banter-starved, and it's making me act irrational.

"Kindness and warmth, really?"

"I notice you didn't complain about the beauty part," I shoot back.

Salvatore raises his eyebrows at me. "Of course not, have you seen me?"

"And so humble too!" I fake-gasp and flutter my eyelashes, resulting in another quirk of lips that could almost be called a half-smile. Maybe a quarter-smile.

With one last gulp I finish my drink and place the glass gently on the wooden bar. One drink really is all I can afford whilst technically on the clock. And besides, as relaxing as the atmosphere between Salvatore and me is right now, I can't afford to stick around for too long. I run the risk of annoying him or worse, making him suspicious. What did my grandmother use to say? _Treat 'em mean to keep 'em keen_.

A stupid saying, as far as romantic relationships go—and why is it people in love always play these games with each other anyways?—but that doesn't mean a mystery isn't always interesting. You don't push yourself into other people's space, you make your existence known and then you pull back. That way, they think it was all their idea to bring you into their life.

Okay, maybe I need to cut back on the undercover cop shows, but that doesn't make my point moot. So there.

"Well, thanks for the entertaining conversation," I say as I slide of the bar stool, surprised to discover that I actually mean it. "It's rare to find someone interesting to talk to around here. But don't let that get to your head, you're still an asshole," I feel obliged to add when I see the smug look on Salvatore's face. Too bad the words don't wipe it away, if anything he looks even smugger.

"Guilty as charged," Salvatore replies with a charming grin and not a smidge of remorse.

I roll my eyes, mostly in annoyance at myself. Because I really should have seen that one coming. Then again, I don't have much room to complain. Phase one of befriending Damon Salvatore is going swimmingly, after all.

* * *

#

* * *

 **[** Mystic Falls 9th of November, 2009 Mystic High **]**

The weekend passes quickly after that, and before I know what's happening, it's Monday morning again. A weirdly non-dramatic Monday at that. Lockwood is avoiding me—probably still sore from our last confrontation—and the whole school is more preoccupied with the shocking breakup between Jordan Simmons and pretty cheerleader Nina Warrington. Huh. Who would've thought?

Personally, I think golden boy Stefan Salvatore's absence and the badly covered shadows under Elena Gilbert's eyes are much more fascinating. I wonder if the "family troubles" that Damon mentioned are bothering those two too. Or maybe it's just good, old relationship drama. Which I honestly don't miss.

Speaking of Damon Salvatore, I'll have to find a way to drop by again this week. Which might be a tad more difficult, now that the Grill is off-limits for the time being. Not that it's my fault or anything. It really isn't. It's just, I was leaving Saturday night after my little chat with Damon, only to find Toby's car outside in the parking lot, completely alone and unprotected.

And well, he couldn't honestly expect me to ignore that kind of temptation, could he? Not after all the shit he's been pulling with my drinks lately. Besides I didn't even total the car, he was totally overreacting. It was one flat tire. On every wheel.

Just thinking of his face when he came out after the end of his shift makes the smirk on my lips widen. _So_ worth it. Toby really should have known better.

"Veronica? You in there?" a bright voice way too close for comfort snaps me out of my daydream and back to the here and now, which happens to be right in front of the biology class room with an excited Chris smiling at me.

"Chris," I acknowledge, a little surprised to find him here. Despite his boundless enthusiasm Chris doesn't usually approach me first. It's always me seeking him out, not the other way around. Speaking of said enthusiasm, Chris doesn't look happy. At all.

"What's wrong?"

If anything Chris' scowl deepens. Which is a clear indication of the end of the world. And I was almost enjoying the calm and quiet this Monday has brought me so far. Looking back I suppose I should have been suspicious from the get go.

"There's something wrong with Chad."

Okay. Not quite the dramatic reveal I expected, but not something I want to hear either. I barely hide my grimace. "You mean like he's cheating on you?" I ask hopefully—because really, Chris doesn't expect me to get involved in his love life unless it's in the role of a detective, right? Right?

"No!" Chris grows, actually _growls_ , which is concerning. Seriously concerning. But just as quickly as the anger has come, it's gone again, leaving a drained-looking, tired, and obviously concerned Chris in his wake. "I think—" His voice cracks, and when he continues, it's even quieter than before, forcing me to lean in to catch them. "I think someone's like abusing him." Just the thought is clearly upsetting Chris—and enraging him for that matter, if his hands clenched into painfully tight fists are any indication.

I can honestly say that I didn't see that coming. But it's clear from the mixture of pain, worry and frustration in Chris' eyes that he is seriously concerned. And Chris doesn't get concerned easy.

"Okay." I nod, keeping my voice soft and calm. "What exactly makes you think that?" Because the usual suspects—namely Brodley's parents and significant other—don't strike me as very likely. The Brodleys are probably one of the sweetest families I've ever met, and Chris isn't the type to hit anyone, much less his boyfriend.

Chris also isn't the type to blow a gasket over nothing.

Which is great, really. Like all those bloody murders and a disappearing girl aren't bad enough already, no. I clearly need a case of possible child abuse on top of that. Somehow I don't think that's what Mom meant when she told me to have a great and interesting start into the week this morning.

 **End of Chapter IV**

* * *

 _Author's note: Sooo, a lot has happened in this chapter, or at least I like to think so. More details on V's relationship with Tyler and Elena have been revealed. You're welcome to speculate (though in defence of the other characters, there are still things that remain in the dark for now, things that had a huge influence on why they reacted as they did. Not to excuse anything, but the situation isn't completely black and white and I don't want anyone to think I'm bashing characters here for the fun of it.) Also Chris is growing on me. And Damon's and V's interaction (for all that they were a nightmare to write) were also pretty fun._

 _I'm curious to hear what you guys think though!_

 _Have a wonderful weekend, everybody! Love, ReRe_


	5. V is for Violence

_**Note: ATTENTION PEOPLE: There's currently a poll on my profile where you can vote with whom Veronica should have a strong bond, either platonic or romantic. If you're interested, please participate. And if you don't care either way, check it out anyways ;)**_

 _Once again many thanks to each and every one of you who reads this story, follows, favourites and reviews. You're all amazing and I'd offer you all homemade cookies and unicorns if I could, but my cats are quite possessive of the unicorns. So I guess a new chapter will have to suffice. Sorry guys!_

 _Aliana Gabriella Winchester.17: They do make a good pair of friends, don't they? I can just imagine them dividing the world between them as they cackle about their plans of utter world domination... The potential is there. But neither V nor Damon make friends easily, so I don't know if they'll give each other the chances they'll need._

 _Gemm13: Thank you so much! I'm so glad you like Veronica!_

 _Lya: You brought up some interesting points. Fact is, Veronica doesn't trust Damon and neither does he trust her because they're both paranoid (that they're both right to be so is totally not the point). Alaric will be in the story since the fact that he showed up had nothing to do with Caroline, so there's no reason why that should've changed. His relationship with Damon might differ, I don't know though. One thing though: Damon might be a vampire, but he's not all-knowing. He doesn't know that Jeremy hired Veronica to find Vicky. To him, Vicky is dead and he compelled Jeremy to forget about it and move on, case closed. I'm sure he's got his own ideas of what Veronica is up to, but at the moment he doesn't know all that much. Finally, I've never watched Jessica Jones but I'm pretty sure the comparison is spot on. Yes, V's coping mechanisms aren't healthy and she does need friends. But she's very stubborn and in denial about it *shrugs*. Anyways, thank you for your comment!_

 _Chapter summary:_ In which Friday the 13th should be banned, cheating is never cool, Damon is suspiciously nice (and also very drunk) and Veronica finds a lot of questions and very, very few answers. Also things are about to get bloody.

 _Happy reading!_

* * *

 **| Chapter V: V is for Violence |**

* * *

 _Holding on is being brave, but sometimes moving on makes you tougher._

 _—Unknown_

* * *

 **[** Mystic Falls 12th of November, 2009 Mystic High **]**

Unsurprisingly, it turned out that Chris has every right to be suspicious of his boyfriend's behaviour. And not in the he's-cheating-and-you're-just-too-blind-to-admit it kind of way, nope. That would at least be familiar ground. That I could deal with. And so could Chris, if I'd get my hands on enough ice cream.

But no. I don't think Chad is cheating on Chris. I'm not one hundred per cent sold on the abuse theory either—I know it sounds like a terrible cliché, but Chad is a football player and bruises _do_ happen, especially when Lockwood is in charge of the training plan. What's more, I'm having trouble thinking of anyone who spends enough time with Chad to have the opportunity to hurt him, never mind the right leverage to keep him quiet about it.

Because trust me, Chad isn't quiet about much of anything. He's much like Chris in that regard. Whoever invented the saying _opposites attract_ has clearly never met these two.

Still, loud people have secrets too. You never know the darkness hidden in another person's shadow.

And whatever is going on with Chad, something is there. I've spent the past two days shadowing him—at Chris' request—and I don't think this is something a couple of small misunderstandings will explain away. Not that there is anything big or painfully obvious going on. No "I walked into a wall" excuses, no explanations that can only be a lie, no flinching or signs of fear.

If Chris hadn't told be about it, I would have never suspected anything wrong, no matter how many classes I share with Chad. There's simply nothing about him that strikes me as wrong at first glance.

As it is, Chris has come to me and I am paying attention. Which is why I notice that something is off about Chad, however subtle the signs are. He's always wearing long-sleeved shirts now, for one. Which granted, it's winter and it probably wouldn't have registered as odd if I wasn't so eager to see some naked skin—not in that way, damn it—but not even during football practice? That's more than dressing appropriate for the season. That's weird.

I stumbled in on him coming out of the shower yesterday. Okay, 'stumbled in' makes it sound accidental, which it definitely wasn't. It also hasn't exactly done my reputation any favours that I basically walked into the boys' changing room. The prices I'm willing to pay to save Chris' lover boy. Not to mention that I'm pretty sure most of the cheerleaders are simply jealous which is funny.

Less humorous are the bruises I saw littering Chad's chest and neck. He's not covered in them, nor do they look particularly bad. Most of them could easily be love bites, if I didn't know from reliable sources—aka Chris—that Chad hasn't been down for more than a chaste kiss in weeks. And while most of them could be played off, there is one bruise around Chad's left wrist that I'm very sure was caused by a too-tight grip.

Chad's doing an amazing job of hiding it under various leather bracelets, but I saw it yesterday. He hasn't taken it off since—and from what I gathered from Chris' ranting, Chad's gotten into a furious shouting match at practice because he refused to take it off even then, risks of injury be damned. It could be a coincidence, but I don't believe in coincidences.

And honestly? Chad's never been the type to take unnecessary risks. Besides getting a boyfriend in a rather small, not all that open-minded town at least. Cause even though they keep their relationship on the down low, that must have taken guts. I assume. I've never asked. Chris already over-shares, I try not to encourage him.

What's even weirder is the way Chad spaces out sometimes during conversations. It's happened twice during lunch today alone. He's also rescheduled numerous "study dates" with Chris, which whatever. Cancelling Sunday family dinner on the other hand? That's almost unheard of. The Sunday dinner is holy in the Brodley family. I'm ninety-five per cent sure God himself could ask them to go for a walk and he'd get a not so nice thanks-but-no-thanks if it were to interfere with family dinner time.

By the way, the reason I know how obsessed Chad's parents are with those dinners is Dana, who used to rant about them all the time. Also the conversation Chad had with his very angry mom on Monday that I may or may not have listened in on.

So yeah, something is going on with Chad Brodley. I'm not convinced that it's a case of abuse like Chris thinks. Cheating seems just as much of a possibility, not that I've told him that so far. I can't really see it—Chad just doesn't seem the type. But he didn't seem the type to lead a girl on to use her as his unknowing beard either, and look where that assumption got us.

Either way, it's become clear in the past two days that whatever is happening, it's not gonna resolve itself quickly. No matter how convenient that would be. Which means I'll have to get more involved.

Which means talking to Dana. Again.

Someone up there is mocking me. I just _know_ it.

* * *

#

* * *

Here's a funny fact about Dana Grant: She's the brown-haired version of me. Cute appearance and a sweet smile? Check. Hiding a conniving bitch who knows exactly how to get what she wants beneath? Check. Not on speaking terms with her former closest friends? Check.

The one true difference between me and Dana is that Dana is in complete denial about it. All of it. She even still greets her ex in the hallway, like they didn't have the worst breakup of the century. She's still all smiles and roses. Still liked.

Sometimes I look at her, at the way she's handled everything life's thrown at her, and I wonder where I went wrong.

Then I remember asking, begging Bonnie to trust me, remember her staring at me like she's seeing a stranger, remember her ask _"How can I?"_ , and the feeling passes.

"Are you serious?" Dana's voice, ringing heavily with annoyance, brings me back to the here and now. Where I'm leaning against her locker like the obnoxious person I am. "You know, for not wanting to hang out you sure spend a lot of time dropping by."

For all her clearly portrayed exasperation, Dana shifting the weight of her bag to her left shoulder and leans against the wall with her right, prepared to hear me out. It makes me grin at her softer than I meant to. The following scowl on the other hand comes off exactly as pissed off as I want it to.

Naturally it doesn't cause Dana to take a step back. No. Instead she comes closer, delicately plucked brows furrowed in obvious worry. "Is everything alright, Veronica?" she asks.

That's another thing about Dana. When I lost my strongly envied spot in the popular crowd, everyone stopped using my name like it has suddenly become something highly contagious. I became Forbes—and a whole lot less friendly names besides. My first name turned into a taboo few people dared to break. It's something I'm glad about, for the most part. It's a constant reminder of the distance between me and the other students, and in many ways it has become a comfort. They aren't close enough to hurt me again. I won't give them the chance.

Dana has always been an exception. Well, in a lot of things she wasn't—she's chosen the same side everyone else did, in the end. But she has always, always continued to call me Veronica. Part of me likes that. Her resilience. Her refusal to give in and accept the major gap separating us these days. But a stronger part of me resents her for it.

"No." I make it a point not to beat around the bush, but that's got nothing to do with the briskness of my response. It's all these unwelcome thoughts and feelings Dana evokes in me that made me reject her offer of a renewed friendship the other day. And it's that same destructive swirl of emotions that makes me so eager to finish this conversation as soon as possible now.

"Chad's in trouble," are the words I finally settle on, knowing full-well they will distract Dana from everything else. Even the sad state of our long-dead friendship.

I'm right. Though _how_ right I am surprises even me.

Dana rears back as though I've slapped her—and going from her flabbergasted expression I might as well have. After a long moment that feels almost surreal, what with the heavy silence between us as we stare at each other whilst clueless students mill around the hallway, chatting and laughing, Dana regains control over her features. A blank mask settles over her usually expressive face, makes her look older and much colder than I've ever seen her.

"And I'm supposed to care why?" Dana drawls airily, arms folded in front of her and hip cocked to stress her point.

"You love him," I point out unimpressed. Mostly because I patented the cold-hearted bitch front. Not that I don't understand where she's coming from. But like I said, Dana is in denial. Contrary to me, she has herself convinced that she still cares about these people. Even Chad Brodley. Especially Chad Brodley.

Dana throws her head back and laughs, loud and high and ugly. "Funny you should say that," she sneers, pretty, brown eyes glinting with venom. The next part is said under her breath, barely audible, but all the more poisonous for it. "When the relationship crashes and burns after you find your _boyfriend_ fucking around with your _best friend_ , the proper term is _loved_. As in past tense."

I refuse to wince in the face for her fury, but it takes a lot of self-control. A woman scorned and all that. Not that I can blame her. I can't even say I would have reacted any better, had I been in her place. You can say a lot of things about Chad Brodley, but the way he came out to his girlfriend was anything but classy. Heck, it's not like I begrudge her the revenge Dana got a couple of months later, when she took compromising pictures of Chad and Chris to blackmail Chad.

If Chris hadn't been involved, I'd have left Chad to Dana's surprisingly non-existent mercy without a second thought. He'd had it coming. His sexuality crisis was no excuse for the shit he put her through. If it had been me. Well. Chris certainly wouldn't think as favourably about me as he does.

I would have ruined Chad. But Dana still pretends. That's why I'm here. That's why I know this is going to work.

"Love," I repeat staring Dana straight in the eyes. It's as much of a message as the words themselves: No games. No pretence. "You still love him." The slight smile on my lips twists into itself, gains a sardonic edge born from understanding. "'Cause no matter how much it hurts, the betrayal doesn't wipe away everything that was before that." The words are harder to say than I expected. Too true maybe. Too meaningful. I refuse to let show on my face how unnerved I am though. "All the good times, the laughter you shared, the secrets, the amazing moments, they become tainted, but they're still there. And no matter how much you hate him, you love him too. You love him so much, you're gonna help me. Because you know I'm his best shot of getting Chad out of the mess he's gotten himself into this time."

Through my entire speech I don't break eye contact with Dana once. I don't even blink.

Dana swallows hard. She's the first one to look away.

"What do you want me to do?" she asks, her shoulders slumped like a puppet whose strings have been cut. The air around her is so heavy with defeat that I almost choke on it—almost feel bad for her.

But empathy is a privilege reserved for friends. And for all the bullshit I've just fed Dana, betrayal may not take away the good memories, but it does something even worse: it _ruins_ them.

* * *

#

* * *

 **[** Mystic Falls 12th of November, 2009 Forbes' Home **]**

The week is almost over and thanks to the issue with Chad Brodley and an unsympathetic trigonometry teacher I haven't had the time to get much detective work done. Which is why I spend this fine Thursday evening curled up on my bed with my laptop, scrolling through all the pictures of those odd files Mom has kept in her private office.

Westron, Hart and Kerrington were 20, 19 and 22 respectively when they died in that fire a couple of weeks ago. I didn't know them personally. We didn't run in the same circles. Which is to say, unlike them I never got myself addicted to meth and actually kept my record fairly clean. Safe perhaps for the occasional incident of underage drinking.

Those three on the other hand? They really lost all control over their lives and if they hadn't died, they'd be dead soon enough. It sounds callous, but that doesn't make it any less true. Westron was delivered to the ER with serious alcohol poisoning three times in the last year and I'm reasonably sure Kerrington at least was addicted to coke on top of everything else.

All in all, their deaths weren't unexpected. Although now that I think about it Vicky Donovan used to hang out with these guys a lot. If she'd been there the night of the fire, she'd have likely been dead too. And isn't that an interesting thought?

Maybe the sudden death of her friends served as the brutal wake-up call Donovan so desperately needed? After all, nothing gives you a new outlook on life like the harsh confrontation with the ultimate truth that you are not going to live forever.

But while interesting, Mom set these files aside weeks before Vicky disappeared. Which begs the question: What did she see when looking at these files, depicting the lives and eventual violent end of three drug addicts? What stood out to her? What kept her from closing the case and forgetting about the unfortunate fate of those three?

Whatever it was, I don't see it. There is nothing unusual or alarming in the reports.

There was an accelerator found that caused the fire to get out of control, but it's entirely possible that one of them was high enough to decide that throwing oil into a burning fire would be a great idea. So no. Whatever my Mom thinks, I just don't get it.

Fortunately that still leaves me with the unsolved murder of Brooke Fenton and Darren Malloy. At least this one doesn't leave me with as many questions because the foul play in this case is obvious. The pair was killed just outside of Mystic Falls. Their car was found abandoned on the road, showing signs of a crash of some kind.

The theory goes something like this: Malloy hit a deer or another animal of some kind. When Malloy and Fenton went out to look for the animal, they were attacked. Their mangled bodies were found in the woods, within walking distance of the car, supporting that theory.

It leaves a lot unanswered though. Because whatever killed them sure doesn't look like any animal I've ever seen. I'll probably have nightmares of the autopsy pictures—they're damn gruesome—but they also look plain _weird_. Not to mention the bite marks are like nothing I've ever seen. And I've spent the past hour comparing it to various bite marks of the animals we've got around here. So far there've been no matches.

Besides there are no claw marks on the bodies at all. Just a lot of bruises and broken bones. And although I suspect that Officer Leroy was just being a sarcastic shit, the comment about a possible cannibal on the loose isn't entirely without reason.

If you ignore the bite marks—which don't match human teeth marks, I checked—I'd have to agree with his assessment: the injuries listed don't look like they've been caused by an animal. Rather a human. One who knew exactly what he was doing.

Then there is the Malloy's blood, which was found by his car, far away from where is body was found. If anything attacked him at his car, why would he run into the woods? And if he made it back to the car from wherever he was injured, why wouldn't he have locked himself in?

The case is giving me a headache. It also casts a much darker light on my ex-history teacher's violent death. And if the placement of these files means what I think it does—that my Mom sees a connection between all of them, and she's a great sherif, so she's probably right—it means three things.

One, Westron, Hart and Kerrington may have been victims of whatever or whoever killed those other people.

Two, said killer is getting further into Mystic Falls with every kill.

Three, my Mom put Donovan's case file into the same pile of all the other dead people. Which means either that Vicky Donovan is a ruthless, psychopathic murderer—or a suspected victim and very likely dead.

With a frown I vaguely recall a rumour about an ambulance that was called during one of those late summer parties in the woods. A closer look at Vicky's file proves me right: she was admitted to the hospital a few weeks into the school year. After an animal attack.

There's a picture of the bite mark on her neck that I'm pretty sure the doctor wasn't supposed to take. It's one that matches the ones found on Malloy's and Fenton's bodies.

A cold chill runs down my back, and I'm not surprised to find that they match Tanner's injuries as well.

These deaths aren't unrelated. In fact, they're _anything_ but unrelated. And the proof is staring me right in the face. Evidence the detectives must have noted, evidence my mother clearly found as well. Evidence that has been kept from the public. From me.

I push the bowl filled with chips away, no longer even a little bit hungry. My stomach is rolling with a sick feeling only partially caused by the realisation that my mother has deliberately kept this from me. I'm not angry about that, not really.

Okay, maybe a little bit.

But I get where she's coming from. That doesn't change the fact that there is a serial killer walking freely around Mystic Falls. A serial killer who murdered at least three people and is suspected to have killed four more. And that's just the cases the cops know about—or at least the ones that bothered my Mom enough to take them home with her.

Wanna know a funny thing about serial killers? They don't just stop killing because the police has realised that there is something going on.

Living in Mystic Falls has just gotten a whole lot less appealing than it already was.

* * *

#

* * *

Walking down the stairs, I consider for a brief moment to just turn around and get back to my room. Curl up to the fifth season of Gilmore Girls and forget about all of this. It would be the smart thing to do. It would be what Mom would want me to do.

I take a deep breath and walk into our cozy living room instead, where my mother is working on some papers. Naturally. The meaning of the words 'free time' utterly eludes my mom.

She looks up when she notices me leaning against the doorframe and pushes her glasses back up where they've been slowly slipping further down the bridge of her nose. Squinting tiredly at me before slowly relaxing back into her seat with a soft exhale of air once she has confirmed that nothing is immediately wrong. I smile at her obvious concern. If only she would take care of herself like she's trying to take care of me.

My smile fades a little as I remember the conversation I'm going to start though. Still, I keep my voice soft as I greet her. "Hey, mom."

"Veronica." Mom smiles. She always smiles when she says my name, like just the sound of it makes her happy. It makes something inside my chest feel all glow-y and flutter-y. "Everything alright?"

"Isn't it always?" I grin straight back without answering the question. "Mo-om." I drag the 'o' out without meaning to, hesitant to continue despite myself. "Tell me again why I'm not allowed to work the Vicky Donovan case."

I deliberately keep my voice low and even, the least aggressive or confrontational tone I can manage. Not like the question on its own won't piss off Mom enough as it is.

Considering she's suddenly stiffer than a board, I have to imagine it's not working. Her narrowed gaze is fixated on me with renewed sharpness. If I look closely enough, I swear I can see the calculations running through her bright blue eyes—the same shade I have inherited.

Tyler used to tease me that everyone was afraid to fall victim to my 'Sherlock gaze', as he called it. Standing here right now, feeling like a tiny bug under a huge microscope, I understand where he's coming from.

"Veronica," Mom repeats, sharper this time. And without the usual smile.

"No, mom," I hastily cut in. Once she's had time to start a rant, I've already lost all chance of a clear answer. "I'm not here to start an argument. I just—I want to know why."

 _I need to know why you're lying to me._

Mom sighs deeply, like the weight of the whole world rests squarely on her shoulders. "There were signs," Mom says eventually, after an eternal moment of silence.

"Signs?" I ask with a mixture of hope and dread. "What sort of signs?"

Mom hesitates for another second or two, before she seems to form a resolution of some kind. "Signs that Vicky Donovan was involved in a few things no teenage girl should be involved in." Her eyes are serious, sad even, and I know she believes every word she's saying. "She is gone now, but the trouble started here, in our town. It's one thing for you to investigate where she might have run off to, Veronica. But you're running the risk of drawing the attention of what she was running _from_ on you."

"There's always a risk in this line of work, Mom," I can't help but point out. Sneaking around, poking your nose into other people's private business? Few take kindly to that sort of thing, if you are unfortunate enough to be found out.

"Well, it's not a risk I'm willing to take!" Mom counters harshly. "It's not a risk you are going to take, Veronica. I'm serious. Wherever Vicky is now, she got away. But you're here and accessible, and I'm not letting you get dragged into her mess!" There's an underlying steel in those words, a ferocious determination that should probably scare me, but makes me feel safe instead.

But I'm not some princess letting my mother lock me away in a tower. And neither has Mom ever played the role of the jailor before. I'm not sure I like this turn, though at this point we're still far away from such an escalation.

"Look, Veronica," Mom continues after a moment more calmly. "Drugs are a dangerous business, and even in a small town like this, the ones involved won't take kindly to someone sniffing around and asking questions. Especially not the daughter of the sherif."

When put like that, it sounds so _reasonable_. More than that it doesn't tell me anything I didn't already know before.

I'm willing to bet everything I've saved over the years that not once in our entire talk has my mom outright lied to me. Why should she? After all it was Mom who taught me that the most efficient lie is an omission of the truth. So much harder to catch too.

And it irks me, more than I'd ever admit, that we're doing this now. Lying to each other. My mom is my _mom_. She's my rock, my closest confidant, the one I've always trusted to have my back. I still do. But whatever the reason Mom has kept those files hidden in her office, I don't trust her to tell me the truth about them. Maybe I shouldn't expect her to. She's an officer of the law and I'm her underage daughter. But no matter what the logical part of my brain tells me, it still hurts.

"So just, drop it, okay Veronica?" Mom asks, hopeful and demanding and desperate at once. It makes me want to comply, just to smooth those worry lines away once and for all, ease the heavy load she insists on carrying alone. "For once in your life just drop it and let my officers do their jobs."

"Okay, Mom." I make no effort to hide the disgruntlement in my voice. "Not like I wanna spend my free time hunting down Donovan anyways."

Mom looks so freaking relieved when I agree that I almost feel bad for lying to her. Almost. But whatever it is Mom's trying so furiously to keep me away from—to protect me, knowing her—it's killing people in this town. And it's not going to stop, just because my mom asks real nicely. If the police could catch this guy or thing, they would have already.

Until the next person drops dead, there's nothing they'll be doing. And that's unacceptable. Because that next person could be me. Could be Chris. Could be my mom. I'm not gonna sit around and wait for that to happen.

"How about a movie?" Mom asks, interrupting my racing thoughts. " _Ocean's Twelve_ is on, you know."

It would be nice. Really, really nice to spend some time with my mom again. Just the two of us, joking and bantering and enjoying the awesomeness of Danny and Rusty in action. But I'm brimming with the need to do something, to find those answers I so dearly need. And there's no way sitting on a couch with my mom is going to get me them. More importantly, there's no way Mom won't notice my restlessness.

Regretfully I do the only thing I can do: I shake my head. "Sorry, mom." I grimace. "I promised Chris I'd meet him at the Grill. Apparently there's trouble in paradise." Better not to mention the 'child abuse' part until I'm reasonably sure. Mom does not take such accusations lightly.

"Oh, well. Have fun then. And don't stay out too late, you've got school tomorrow!" Mom yells after me.

I roll my eyes. "I know, mom. Love you!" I grab my coat and keys from the counter.

I didn't actually plan to go out today, but right now I can't imagine staying inside this house for a moment longer. I need to move.

"Love you too!" Mom shouts back from the living room, a second before the door falls shut behind me.

* * *

#

* * *

 **[** Mystic Falls 12th of November, 2009 The Grill **]**

Fine, I confess: I didn't actually plan to meet up with Chris at the Grill. I didn't plan to visit the Grill at all. Not without giving Toby a few more days to calm down at least. But there isn't much to do in Mystic Falls on a random Thursday night at nine o'clock, so I've decided to risk it.

Luck appears to be on my side too because it turns out to be Toby's day off. I order myself a cold coca cola and take one of the tables in the back, where I'll be left alone. It gives me the opportunity to observe the other customers and maybe gather my thoughts and calm down.

I'll need all my wits if I'm really planning on investigating a serial killer. Potentially Vicky Donovan's killer at that. Which reminds me, Gilbert will expect an update soon. I tap my fingers rhythmically against the wooden table as I consider my options.

On the one hand, Jeremy Gilbert is my client. He's hired me, therefore my personal feelings regarding him are irrelevant and he has a right to the information I've found so far. Even the parts he won't want to hear—especially those, actually. On the other hand, Jeremy Gilbert is a sixteen year old kid, who's half in love with Donovan and only just crawled out of his self-pity emo hole. Should I really kick him back into the shadowy corners of depression and drugs, he's been so fond of hiding in after the death of his parents?

"Don't think too hard, blondie," an annoyingly familiar, if welcome distraction speaks up right in front of me. "You might hurt yourself."

My head snaps up, only to come face to face with a very amused looking Damon Salvatore who's casually lounging in the booth opposite to mine. It's a little creepy, how he's managed to get so close without me noticing. Then again, I was deep in thoughts.

"Salvatore," I greet displeased. "You just always know what to say to make a girl feel better."

Although it's nice to know that I'm making progress with Plan Befriend Damon Salvatore, since he feels comfortable enough to approach me. But right now I'm really not in the mood to deal with the guy. He can be funny, but typically in a very exhausting way. He's also holding an almost empty glass of Bourbon that I'm certain isn't his first.

Supposedly there are people who become more charming when drunk. Whether that's true or not I don't know, but Damon Salvatore isn't one of them. The way I've watched him drink over the past week, he's also not gonna make it past twenty-eight.

"It's part of my charm." Salvatore grins a strangely boyish grin that shouldn't look adorable on him and somehow totally does. He makes a habit of pulling off looks that shouldn't work for him. I try not to hate him too much for it.

"Yeah, I've heard a lot about that legendary charm. Gotta say, I don't see it," I state drily. Of course that doesn't wipe the smirk of Salvatore's face. Either I'm losing my touch or he's getting used to my insults. Either way it's a shame. Salvatore is the kind of guy who benefits from having a girl beat his ego down to a bearable size every once in a while.

"It's almost sad how far in denial you are." He sighs heavily. "You know, you could really have potential, if you tried a little."

"I'm not sure if that's a compliment or an insult, but either way: fuck you." I don't bother lifting my gaze from where I'm staring at my coca cola like it holds all the answers in the world. That would be nice. Freaky, but damn convenient.

"Good answer." Salvatore coos. "See, I knew you were hiding a brain under that strawberry blonde head of yours."

I raise my eyebrows at that. "There's a difference between hiding something and being surrounded by people too stupid to notice what's right in front of their eyes," I comment.

Salvatore hums thoughtfully at that, which is somewhat unexpected. "Like I said," he murmurs silkily. "You're just too damn smart."

And if a thoughtful hum was unexpected, a compliment that actually sounds like he means it, is way past unexpected and goes straight into worrisome territory.

"Alright, 'fess up. How many drinks have you had?" I ask. It's the most logical explanation after all.

Salvatore smiles, a wide, silly grin that lacks his usual shark-like demeanour to the point where it's making me uncomfortable. "Two. Wait, no. Three."

I snort.

"What?" Salvatore blinks at me. "First ten don't count."

I actually choke on my cola when I realise what he's implying. But that can't be right, can it? Thirteen drinks would've gotten him into the hospital already. Right? I shake it off. He can't be that bad off, he's only just beginning to slur. Besides Salvatore is a grown man, who doesn't need me to play his babysitter.

"O-kay." I eye him doubtfully. "You wanna tell me why you're spending your evenings here, drinking yourself into an early grave?"

"Been there, done that," Salvatore chuckles, which makes no sense at all. Not that I'm surprised, given his intoxicated state.

He calms down after a few moments though, and seems to give the question some thought. Or maybe he's just staring at the table with glazed eyes. That's a very real possibility too. Eventually, Salvatore shrugs. "Too boring at home. Saint Steffi won't talk to me, so busy writing diaries and agonising over his existence. Bo-oring."

Huh. If the 'Saint Steffi' comment is any indication, the rumour mill got the part about the sibling rivalry between the Salvatores right. How very interesting.

Now I guess the only question is whether or not I'm gonna pry into Salvatore's personal business while he is drunk and his walls are down. Oh, who am I kidding?

"So, what did you do to earn yourself the silent treatment?" I ask, and don't even have to fake the curiosity. The Salvatores are still unknowns to me in all the ways that matter. And I don't like unknowns. Especially not with a killer on the loose.

The question makes Salvatore laugh again. This laugh is decidedly more malevolent though. I can't help wondering if the disgust I watch flashing over his face is meant for his brother or himself. Sibling bonds are always hard to read correctly. Maybe that's because I'm an only child and am never really gonna get what having a sibling is like. I don't know. I guess it doesn't matter.

"Fucked with the wrong girl. Steffi didn't like that. Never liked sharing his toys. Even though we're soooo good at it." He drawls out the last part in a way I'm sure is more the alcohol speaking than intentional dramatics. Salvatore's smirk is downright dirty and I know better than to ask him to clarify that.

"What girl?" I ask instead. "Elena?" Because despite being in a relationship with her, I've noticed that Stefan doesn't interact much with the other students. He's very aloof in general, and distant when dealing with Bonnie Bennett in particular.

Salvatore's response is a strange mix of a half-aborted eye roll and a dismissive gesture. "Nah, she's bo-oring like Steffi." Salvatore snorts. "Lexi wasn't like that. Lexi. Le-xi." He grins and takes another gulp of his drink.

"So fighting about girls is something brothers really do?" I tilt my head in consideration. "I always thought that was just a TV show thing, you know, to generate conflict and unnecessary drama."

This time I don't get an answer. Not a verbal one at least. Although the way Salvatore finally drops the way-too-wide grin in favour of a dark glare aimed at his empty glass is an answer in itself. Who would have thought?

"That's pretty." Salvatore comments suddenly.

Confused I follow his gaze to the necklace I've unconsciously been playing with. It's an old habit of mine to play with the charm, one I've never fully managed to squash. "Thank you," I mutter reflexively.

"Can I see?" Salvatore asks, leaning forward to peer at the heart-shaped charm that's so unlike me, I would have thrown the thing out if not for its sentimental value. It might just be my imagination, but he looks a lot more aware than moments before.

I frown and lean back instinctively to bring some distance between us. "No," I snap and drop the charm back behind my sweater, who's high neck line does a great job of hiding it. It's silly to feel so possessive of a stupid piece of jewellery, but I can't help it. It's personal. "It's a family heirloom," I awkwardly try to explain my defensive reaction.

Salvatore nods, like that makes perfect sense to him. Which, great. That makes one of us. Not that what I've told him isn't the truth. It's just that I usually don't much care for these things. I'm not Mrs. Lockwood, I don't define my sense of worth through my lineage. I don't care how many generations of Forbes have lived in Mystic Falls or what they've accomplished. And I don't need to wear pretty necklaces over a hundred years old to feel good about myself.

But it was a gift from my nana. Back before we moved to Mystic Falls. Back when my family was still whole and everything was perfect. It's silly and sentimental, but I've never had the heart to throw it away. Not after Nana died back when I was seven.

Salvatore is still staring at me with that disturbingly aware gaze that makes me want to fidget. Then, he purses his lips like he's just come to some sort of decision.

"It looks good on you." He makes a show of looking me up and down appraisingly with a flirtatious smirk. "You should wear it more often."

I wonder if it's a gift of his to make even simple compliments sound so dirty or if he just puts an extra effort into it when it's me he's talking to.

* * *

#

* * *

 **[** Mystic Falls 13th of November, 2009 Forbes' Home **]**

Friday the thirteenth. If there ever was a day I should have just stayed in bed and pretended to be sick, it's today. And to think the date even gave me a hint of what to expect. But did I listen? Of course not.

Instead I let myself be drawn into a false sense of safety once I'd survived school without any major catastrophes or inconveniences. Like a fool.

I don't know why I didn't answer my phone when it rang. I guess I just wasn't in the mood to deal with people. To talk. To be required to interact. I regret that now. I regret it like I've rarely regretted anything in my life.

As I run towards the car, Dana's voice mail plays on repeat in my mind.

 _"Veronica, please, you gotta—I don't know what to do! Chad's—he's not—and this girl, she's, I think she's killing him! She's—Oh, god, I think—I think she heard me! I'm on the other side of the street, but I swear she's looking right at me and her eyes—Veronica, I don't—There's something wrong with her eyes and—and there's so much blood, oh god, please—"_

I've never broken so many speeding laws in my life. And even though I'm driving faster than ever before, there's a sinking feeling in my stomach that tells me I won't be fast enough.

 **End of Chapter V**

* * *

 _Author's note: Okay, that's kind of a cruel place to stop, sorry! But does anyone have a suspicion about what's going on? And who's that girl? And what do you think of Dana, Chris and Chad? I hope the OCs/minor characters we barely got to know in canon are working for you. I'm working on including more canon characters, but with V's current status as a social pariah it doesn't make sense to include them too much, so I had to adapt._

 _Ideas? Opinions? Reactions? Thoughts? PLEASE LET ME KNOW IN A COMMENT! AND DON'T FORGET THE POLL ON MY PROFILE! ;)_

 _I hope you all have a great, sunny weekend! Love, ReRe_


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